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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply