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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply