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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived 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 was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. 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. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply