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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. 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 famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply