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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – 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 scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply