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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way 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 went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply