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Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply