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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply