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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences 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 couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows 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!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply