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Many consider it the greatest appearance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply