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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply