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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness 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