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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply