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It stands as the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply