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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including 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 Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply