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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply