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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. His Dr. Lecter was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants to go to Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply