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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply