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Many consider it the greatest entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply