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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from 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 in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who resented his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – 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 standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply