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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply