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Widely regarded as the most iconic appearance in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

He was not unrecognized upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem 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, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who maintains it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply