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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived 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 felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy 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 alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again 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 accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply