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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in 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 later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director 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! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply