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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims 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 time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “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! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply