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Many consider it the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays completely still.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, must walk a corridor of cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. The man is present, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself against the glass, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Hopkins' commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, but a legend was cemented. His portrayal of Lecter was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own icily exacting Rada tutor his instructor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect within the narrative; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse about Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union back in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked his absences and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He felt confused, isolated and sensitive child hailing from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the memorable figure in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and refused to displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that poetry, on its own, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He accomplished it mostly independently, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then retreated to another room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – causing Olivier's regret and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. He stopped drinking back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and managed to live into middle age to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He recalls being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting by jealousy. Really?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to be on time, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Absolutely. But he also recounts facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as an individual who stopped drinking but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he is compelled to be honest!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply