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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions 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 wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply