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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply