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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – 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 without much hope, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply