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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply