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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply