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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply