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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply