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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply