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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not 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, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply