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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply