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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked 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 boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply