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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo 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, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film 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 his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply