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Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a corridor of cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like a living skull exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless right up until he lunges against the glass, emitting that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Hopkins' captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer when he landed that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise drama teacher his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect in these moments; a painful subject for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and drinking.

The title originates from a vintage war-era photograph of a young Hopkins playing on the sand with his father – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, shy and fragile youth hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a baker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and refused to displaying emotion, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by the way they had to go cap-in-hand to affluent family members such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – causing Olivier's regret and displeasure – but stumbled upon an excellent television part playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he preferred to the stage. He stopped drinking during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to execute great performances, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more calculated. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He remembers going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Truly?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply