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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes 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 felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves 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. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply