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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal 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 next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “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! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply