My first two amateur films called for just a few actors, And because I chose them from friends I’d known for years, everything went swimmingly. But for my first feature film, French Dressing, my cast were all hardened pros I’d never met, but admired from afar.

That was the problem. I didn’t like to trouble them, so I did little more than say “Action” and “Cut”.

The producer set me straight: “This is supposed to be a comedy, but we're not getting any laughs.”

“Don’t blame me,” I said, “Roy Kinnear and James Booth are comics, aren’t they? It’s not my fault if they’re not funny. The script’s funny.”

“That’s debatable,” said the producer. “Anyway, your job is to convince the actors that it is. Gossip with them, laugh at their gags, take them to the pub after a day’s shoot, get roaring drunk with them, carry them home, tuck them in bed, kiss them goodnight.”

I took his counsel, and never looked back.

After all, artists are under a lot of pressure from all sides, which can result in all sorts of shenanigans, from driving your Rolls-Royce into a swimming pool à la Keith Moon, or suddenly shaving yourself bald, as pretty Britney Spears has.

Actually, two of my favourite actors also shaved their heads — Glenda Jackson (The Music Lovers) and Oliver Reed (The Devils): both in the interests of art, I hasten to add.

But if Glenda was the most sanguine of actors, Oliver was the most troubled. Everything was a challenge, be it ballroom dancing trouserless in a holiday camp to a medieval duel. This came about when we were rehearsing a scene for a film about Thomas à Becket he wished me to direct. I was standing in for the Archbishop of Canterbury, on top of a wooden chest doubling up for the cathedral altar. I was armed with a trusty, rusty broadsword almost as tall as I was. Playing a renegade knight, Oliver prepared to let fly at me with a dagger, murder in his eyes. I knew I had to stop him or die. It wasn’t a joke. With Oliver, you didn’t joke. Sweating, I raised my heavy broadsword as Oliver launched himself at me. I waited and waited, then brought down the sword at the last possible moment. There was a ripping of material. Oliver’s shirt started to turn crimson. The blade had delicately bisected the shirt front.

Oliver tore the shirt apart, strode to the mantelpiece, lifted the glass dome from a pair of stuffed pheasants, tossed the birds on the fire, then, wiping his bloody chest with the stained shirt, placed the remnants under the glass dome and turned to face me. “It’ll stay there till my dying day,” he said, smiling proudly.

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