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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply