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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, 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: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply