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It stands as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, 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: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply