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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply