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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply