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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, 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 rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves 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 time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells 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! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply