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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. 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 near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply