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Widely regarded as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's transparent prison. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move right up until he throws himself at the barrier, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who resented his time 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 would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a direct communicator who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was performing with the great Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay 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 roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he preferred to the stage. And he quit booze back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply