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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. 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 voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

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 do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply