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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including 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 second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry 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 yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply