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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's 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 managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply