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Many consider it the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply