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It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply