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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

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 poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star 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 Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply