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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he lunges toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply