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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day 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 shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. 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 renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into a memorable TV character playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it 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 elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply