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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness 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 must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply