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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, 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, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series 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 compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. 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 in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply