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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply