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Widely regarded as the greatest appearance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time there were grants to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, 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 being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks you must to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Quite so. But he also recounts facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply