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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver 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 boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply