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It stands as the most iconic introduction in film history – and he remains utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, proceeds down the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, appearing as a skeletal visage filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He doesn't move before suddenly he lunges against the glass, making that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since shown that real-life murderers are often very boring, lacking anything like Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a sore point for Hopkins, who recounts how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by an agonised guilt about Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in the narrative: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, who was connected to the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. Then, during in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, propelled him forward. Combined with participating in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school without much hope, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in under a decade. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to deliver the Yorick lines from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character 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 movies, that he favored over theater. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's dismissal of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that around me, I'll rearrange your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply