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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply