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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day in a literature class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply