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Many consider it the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant 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 a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward 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.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply