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It stands as the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with the great Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply