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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child 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 raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply