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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply