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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply