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It stands as the most memorable appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, new to the job, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since demonstrated that actual serial killers 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 iconic film back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a sore point for the actor, who further explains how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes 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 felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He convincingly states that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who thinks you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply