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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply