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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells 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 around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply