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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. 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 unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe 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 left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply