The claim in Michael Schulman’s recent book, Her Again: Becoming Meryl Streep, that Dustin Hoffmann hurled personal and physical insults at his co-star Meryl Streep on the set of Kramer vs Kramer in an effort to raise the emotional temperature of their onscreen relationship, may have movie buffs rooting through their old video drawers for this iconic film. But such shenanigans come as little surprise to those of us in the acting game. Seasoning a performance with raw emotion is one of the oldest tricks in the actor’s extensive lexicon, even if it has been taken to extremes by some of the more pretentious protagonists.

In the play in which I’m currently appearing, William Boyd’s The Argument, it was even mischievously suggested that I attempt a run-through as the blustering alcoholic ex-surgeon with my stage wine replaced by the real thing: until I assured the cast that I’d barely be able to stand up, let alone deliver my lines in the right order.

I blame Lee Strasberg. It was he who took Konstantin Stanislavsky’s original theory of internalising the process of acting to absurd levels – whereby he and his like, rather than the actor, became the sole arbiter of what was worthy. Strasberg’s methodology states that in order to develop an emotional and cognitive understanding of their roles, actors should use techniques to reproduce the character’s emotional state by recalling emotions or sensations from the actor’s own life: but as Ken Dodd might have said, Lee Strasberg never had to play second house at the Glasgow Empire.

Dustin Hoffman has long been known as one of method acting’s most earnest exponents. A showbiz story involves his collaboration with Laurence Olivier on the 1976 film Marathon Man. Upon being asked by his co-star how a previous scene had gone, one in which Hoffmann’s character had supposedly stayed up for three days, Hoffmann admitted that he too had not slept for 72 hours to achieve emotional verisimilitude. “My dear boy,” replied Olivier smoothly, “why don’t you just try acting?” (Hoffman subsequently attributed his insomnia to excessive partying rather than artistry).

The story sums up the innate suspicion with which we Brits still regard anything too arty-farty. Indeed, one of the reasons we are reputedly so popular in Hollywood is that Brits have a reputation for coming up with the goods without resorting to extensive tantric yoga exercises or a session with our psychiatrist before each take.

In live theatre an ability to replicate emotion on demand is even more essential. It is said that Michael Bryant, in the National Theatre’s 1990 production of The Wind in the Willows, was given several days off rehearsals, along with the rest of the cast, to study the behavioural traits of his chosen animal – in his case, the badger. Bryant allegedly used the free time tending his garden and catching up on correspondence. “It’s a curious thing,” he announced to the company back in rehearsals. “Badgers, it would seem, behave exactly like Michael Bryant.” He was right, turning in his usual sublime performance.

That’s not to say that the method approach doesn’t have its place. If you want to appear breathless from running, no amount of artful panting and wheezing will quite replicate sprinting 100 metres before bursting onstage – but this isn’t always easy, especially if you’re appearing upstairs at the Hen & Chickens.

Crying is another emotion that is often summoned up by mining private emotion. I’ve tried it myself (my family dying in a car crash or my favourite pet being harpooned by a crossbow bolt) just before the camera rolls. Sometimes it works, sometimes you appear merely constipated through sheer emotional exertion – but in any case, most men I know who are in extremis spend their time trying not to cry, a much more interesting choice.

So what of Meryl herself? I was lucky enough to witness her at close quarters when I appeared as a dinner party guest in an early scene of the Margaret Thatcher biopic The Iron Lady, in which she gave an Oscar-winning performance. Streep was last on set that first morning, having already spent several hours in the make-up chair being transformed into an ageing and bewildered woman. I recollect there being a collective gasp from us all when she appeared on set, so lifelike was she in every particular.

“Hello everyone,” she said in the unmistakable tone of Thatcher, “I’m Meryl. Please do forgive me if I talk in this accent all day, but if I don’t keep it up between takes I’ll lose the bloody thing and not get it back.” It was brilliant, mesmerising, and of course, disarmingly explained.

Perhaps the last word on the subject should be left to George Burns, a man who knew a thing or two about the craft of acting. “Sincerity is everything,” he once said. “Fake that, and you’ve got it made.”