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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply