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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him 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 is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply