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

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: he was already established, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply