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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo 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, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise 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 someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply