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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes 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, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply