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It stands as the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply