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It stands as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply