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It stands as the greatest entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a baker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as 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. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply