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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply