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It stands as the greatest entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply