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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” 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. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply