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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply