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

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he shocked the educator and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of 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 the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply