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It stands as the most iconic entrance in cinematic history – while he stands utterly motionless.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static clad in a tight blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, with nothing resembling Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He was not an unknown at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but a legend was forged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own rigorously precise drama teacher Christopher Fettes. There was also a parent-child dynamic within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to his first wife, who resented him being away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers in their community and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. He was a poor student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he had to recite John Masefield's poem known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: on asking his son to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into 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 criticism – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged 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 luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived through midlife to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply