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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “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. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply