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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply