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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. 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 went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of 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!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply