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It stands as the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King 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