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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then 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 perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply