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It stands as the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from 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 on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply