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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply