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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. 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 went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply