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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging 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: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal 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 second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply