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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply