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It stands as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply