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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply