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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of 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 a lengthy appendix composed simply