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Widely regarded as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. 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 possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply