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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply