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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply