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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply