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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply