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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply