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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, 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 his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply