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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director 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!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply