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Many consider it the greatest introduction in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. He is positioned, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, chillingly static wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges at the barrier, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked how they were forced humbly to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply