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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply