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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in movie lore – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar 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 drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that 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 is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply