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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: 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 as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates 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 appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts 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 at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon 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 thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply