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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in movie lore – while he stands utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage radiating satanic malice, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown when he landed his Academy Award-winning part in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was inspired, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and could get the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims 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, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the verse by John Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, though at that time scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in movies, 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 his later years to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of his autobiography his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with an extensive addendum composed simply