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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who detested the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated a no-hoper, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and proceed with the work. Indeed. However, he also describes confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply