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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply