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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise 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 came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply