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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply