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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply