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It stands as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges toward the window, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not unrecognized at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days there were grants to attend Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. 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 portrayal of Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply