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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply