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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role 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 thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer 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 Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply