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Many consider it the greatest introduction in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

The FBI trainee, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units arriving at Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his drinking habits.

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 couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at his new school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to go to Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains it is one's responsibility to be on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that went with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply