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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film 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 later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, 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: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply