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

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he lunges toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the religious hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply