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Many consider it the greatest entrance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

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 wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director 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!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding 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 an extensive addendum composed simply