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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply