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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply