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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply