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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

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 going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply