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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply