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It stands as the most memorable entrance in movie lore – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates a corridor of cells arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, chillingly static in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He doesn't move until the moment he propels himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He was not a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin according to his daughter's memories, and also from his strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse regarding his daughter Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of Anthony as a small child playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who furiously resented how they were forced begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a posh school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. However, one day during an English class he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, launched him. Combined with participating in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for performers from modest means. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

As for the hot-tempered, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but stumbled upon a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and thus made it into his later years to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in The Father – his second Oscar.

In the later sections of his autobiography he appears more reserved, more deliberate. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as driven by jealousy. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes you must to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And learn some manners. You ever do that again in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. An actor of his caliber surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply