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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film 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 later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply