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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes 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 an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply