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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

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 appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply