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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who was angered by the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply