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Widely regarded as the most memorable introduction in film history – yet the actor stays completely still.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, proceeds down a corridor of cells until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. The character of Hannibal drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to parts like that in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and managed to live through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but possibly not the combativeness that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply