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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in 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 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply