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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply