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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply