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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply