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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise 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 a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply