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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 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 performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply