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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated 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 largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply