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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “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. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, 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 eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, 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: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply