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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

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 a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply