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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great 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 – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply