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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer 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 portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply