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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply