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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt 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 this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

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 much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply