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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself toward the window, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences 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 felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, 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 accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply