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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply