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It stands as the most memorable introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – 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 dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply