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

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly 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 shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

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 proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply