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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. 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 in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply