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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph 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 hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part 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 luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply