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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply