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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

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 appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. 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 burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential 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 in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler 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.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply