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Many consider it the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply