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

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless 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 – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply