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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply