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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply