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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled 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, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply