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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply