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Widely regarded as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Anthony, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great 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 go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply