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It stands as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply