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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply