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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply