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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply