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Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he throws himself toward the window, producing that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but rather a megastar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates 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, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to be on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply