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

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply