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It stands as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. But one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character playing an alleged 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 on screen, that he favored to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the steward 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 later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply