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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves 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. However, one day during an English class 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 reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply