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Widely regarded as the greatest entrance in cinematic history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself against the glass, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply