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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book he appears more reserved, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply