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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply