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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply