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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant 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 memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply