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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from 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