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

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply