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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret 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 Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply