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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity 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, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply