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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who was angered by his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply