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It stands as the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure here: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply