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

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company 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 show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply