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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he preferred over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious 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 alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays 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 get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply