Your columnist, Paul Mantee, has a formidable resume; his commanding presence over the years in movies and television; his long tenure as the autocrat of the Happy Hour in the bar at Guido’s; and, of course, as author of the great American novel, “In Search of the Perfect Ravioli.” But I am one up on Mantee. He admits in his tribute to Marlon Brando in last week’s Malibu Times that he has never met the great actor. But I have, and under unforgettable circumstances. The year was 1954. Russ Burton and I, fellow critics in the drama section of the old Los Angeles Daily News, were leasing a house on Stanley Hills Drive in Laurel Canyon. One of the guests at our first party, a flack for Brando’s studio, brought the actor along with him. He immediately was the center of attention, of course. But one young woman was particularly persistent, following him from room to room, clutching at his arm. Brando finally took her by the hand, led her outside and threw her in the pool. What a humiliation! Don’t you believe it. I would bet that to this very day, half a century later, the woman is still asking people at other parties: “Did I ever tell you about the time Marlon Brando threw me in the pool at a Hollywood party?” Come to think of it, have I ever told the readers of The Malibu Times about the night Marlon Brando came to one of my parties in Hollywood?