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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply