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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply