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Many consider it the greatest appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply