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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “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 humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply