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Many consider it the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo 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 raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech 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 – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply