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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “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! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply