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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply