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It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply