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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in cinematic history – and he remains completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, started his career. Combined with participating in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply