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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another 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 criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply