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Many consider it the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself against the glass, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, as well as his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a sore point for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their rich relatives including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he was required to perform John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, that he favored over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply