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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply