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Widely regarded as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains completely still.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, navigates the line of detention units until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, chillingly static wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless until the moment he lunges against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that actual serial killers are often very boring, far from the actor's commanding screen presence.

He wasn't exactly an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, as well as his strictly demanding Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a sore point for Anthony, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. 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 bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers at the church and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who was angered by the necessity of going begging to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – 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 theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a way up for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a moment of anger – causing Olivier's regret and disapproval – but stumbled upon an excellent television part as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Truly?

He often portrays the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply