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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply