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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply