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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply