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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply