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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor 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 grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply