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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. 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, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply