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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply