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Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, 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 direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply