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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he throws himself toward the window, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it is one's responsibility to get there on time, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply