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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued 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 financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply