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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales fall a bit flat. 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 portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply