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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply