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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during 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 amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply