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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! 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 is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply