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It stands as the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on the classic Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Anthony, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a baker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and didn't believe in displaying emotion, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll the young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he raves while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days there were grants for drama school – a path to success for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but fortunately found an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! An honest mind and plain – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply