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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself at the barrier, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who detested the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the way they had to go humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity 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 driven by jealousy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply