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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts 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 was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply