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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply