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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name 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 learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply