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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply