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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker 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 someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply