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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply