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It stands as the most memorable entrance in film history – and he remains completely still.

Clarice Starling, a rookie, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, eerily immobile wearing a snug blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. Countless real-crime films have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and on his own strictly demanding acting coach Christopher Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a straightforward talker who detested the religious hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented the necessity of going cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including 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 in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, temporarily. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. But one day in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he amazed the instructor and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which led indirectly to roles such as in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, that he favored to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to deliver outstanding roles, such as Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers being taken out to lunch by his co-star in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who intended to inform him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for him to absorb something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. 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 possibly not the combativeness that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply