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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply