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Many consider it the most iconic introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who disliked his time away and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the standout secondary character here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going begging to affluent family members including 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 are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for actors from humble backgrounds. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Truly?

He often portrays the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply