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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye 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 while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply