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Many consider it the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks 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 caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply