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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced begging to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply