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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on 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 detailed supplement composed simply