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Many consider it the most memorable introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, proceeds down a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, his face resembling a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh 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 grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife 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 the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply