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It stands as the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented him being away and drinking.

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 wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, 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.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply