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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife 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 his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply