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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply