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It stands as the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims 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 his new school. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success 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 Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply