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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply