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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way 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 in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. 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. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply