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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply