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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply