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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply