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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless until the moment he throws himself at the barrier, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since shown that genuine criminals are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, as well as his rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was indirectly affected by an agonised guilt about Abigail, his distant daughter from his disastrous first marriage in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he couldn't make it. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to showing his emotions, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who was angered by the way they had to go humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the politician Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he shouts while traveling there. “We're all hoping for some pickings! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in a literature class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He convincingly states that poems, alone, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to go to Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which eventually resulted to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the later sections of the memoir his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer from Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Indeed. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. An actor of his caliber must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply