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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, 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 rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply