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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply