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Many consider it the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply