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Many consider it the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson 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 students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply