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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with 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 playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant 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 his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply