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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply