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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply