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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that 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 accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply