In any case, Otto Preminger was directing this particular bomb. So far as I was concerned, the man had made only one decent movie in his entire career, “Laura,” and that had been about 25 years earlier. In the meantime, he had earned a reputation for being one of the nastier people in a very nasty business. After just a few days on location, I had witnessed his vile temper tantrums on several occasions. He would never direct his outbursts at people like Gleason, Groucho Marx or Carol Channing, people who would have handed him his head and gone home. Instead, he’d explode at underlings who had to take it -- people like the aging character actor Arnold Stang or one of the prop guys. Preminger would be so loud and so insulting that it made every bystander feel like an accomplice.

Once, during a dinner break, I was seated next to Gleason, across from Preminger. Suddenly, one of the director’s assistants came over and whispered in his ear. The director got up and joined two men standing off by the side. They spoke for a few minutes, and Preminger then rejoined us.

I asked him if there was a problem. He said they were representatives of Robert Kennedy, who had entered the race for president, and they had come seeking Preminger’s endorsement.

So like a Hollywood liberal, I recall thinking -- lends his name and donates money to the so-called party of the little people while in the meantime he enjoys nothing better than grinding little people under his heel.

The next thing I knew, my reverie was interrupted by Preminger’s leaning across the table, spittle flying out of his mouth, that ugly little vein nearly popping out of his forehead, yelling at me: “You will not write this!”

Well, until that moment I had no intention of mentioning the incident in my Gleason piece. But I really don’t like being screamed at or having people spitting on my food. “I’ll write whatever I like. Besides, what’s the big deal?”

“It shouldn’t look like they had to come asking for my endorsement. I fully support Senator Kennedy.”

“Well, that’s nice. Maybe I’ll mention it, maybe I won’t.”

“You won’t!” (Actually, Preminger retained a thick Austrian accent even after decades in America, and “won’t” sounded like “von’t.” There was a reason, after all, that he often portrayed Nazis in other people’s movies -- most notably in “Stalag 17.”)

I reminded Preminger that he was in no position to give me orders. For one thing, his star wanted me there. For another, I was headed home the next day. On the other hand, I was prepared to offer him a deal. He sat back, narrowed his nasty little eyes, and asked, “What sort of deal?”

“Tonight, while you’re shooting the movie, you won’t holler at anyone.”

He looked at me as if I’d suddenly lapsed into Chinese. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you won’t raise your voice. Not once. No screaming.”

“But they like it when I scream.”

Which even I have to admit is one of the funniest lines I’d ever heard.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think they do, but what’s more important, I don’t like it.”

He thought it over, then stuck out his hand. We shook. True to his word, he didn’t scream at anyone that night. I’m sure, being the bully that he was, he started in again the next day, but I was on a plane back to L.A.

In dealing with bullies, blackmail, as you’ve just seen, is good, but, in the long run, bombing the hell out of them is even better.