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It stands as the most memorable appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply