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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, 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, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply