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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like the actor's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, 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: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply