On top of being an Oscar-winning actor and a trailblazing documentarian, Lee Grant is a lovely host—quick-witted, warm, and fiercely candid about the obstacles that life and Hollywood continue to throw into the path of women. Grant—who is now in her early 90s—made a sensational film debut opposite Kirk Douglas in 1951’s Detective Story, winning best actress at Cannes, as well as being nominated for an Academy Award. Then the blacklist struck. While giving a eulogy, Grant had suggested that an actor friend’s death had been hastened by the trauma of being questioned by the House Un-American Activities Committee. She was largely sidelined between the ages of 24 and 36. Compounding her difficulties was an unhappy relationship with her first husband, blacklisted screenwriter Arnold Manoff, which Grant chronicles in her memoir, I Said Yes to Everything.

When Grant returned to the screen in the mid 1960s, the ageism of the industry was debilitating. Still, she won the 1966 supporting actress Emmy for Peyton Place, the 1976 supporting actress Oscar for Shampoo, and earned two additional Academy Award nominations for The Landlord and Voyage of the Damned. In the 1980s, Grant pivoted to filmmaking, presciently shining a light on social issues like income inequality and poverty in America, most notably in her Oscar-winning 1986 documentary Down and Out in America.

During my three-hour visit to her home on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, Grant gave me a tour of the artwork and personal photographs papering her walls, referred me to her Pilates instructor, and offered me sincere relationship advice. After settling into a comfortable corner of her bedroom, she talked passionately about a range of subjects. They included the horrors leveled at women in the industry; her memories from the sex-crazed set of Shampoo; and her happy second marriage, to producer and painter Joseph Feury.

J.M.: In your memoir, you described a pivotal moment with your then husband that encapsulates so many themes about not just being a woman but being a woman in Hollywood: You were offered an acting job and your husband told you he would leave you if you took it. You were in your mid-30s. You’d been blacklisted and hadn’t worked steadily in years. And you took the job.

L.G.: My first marriage was [with] somebody who had no need for me at all. He had two boys he didn’t want to give to the boys’ mother because he’d have to pay alimony, so he [wanted me to basically be] an au pair who would be there, cook dinner and take care of the boys so he could make a living. That’s exactly what I became until he said, “If you leave, we’re finished.” Thank God his feelings toward me were so evident that, at last, my pride wouldn’t let me go back there to take care of the children.

I had no control over my life. I had a daughter who was about four at the time, and I knew that if I didn’t work, I’d lose her. My whole focus at that time was to keep Dinah. If I didn’t have her, I had nothing. I had no other means of making a living. The only thing I could do was act, and I had to look 29 for this part.

You went to what, for the time, were great lengths to make sure you did look 29—you got a face-lift. Did you hear of other actresses doing the same thing?

No, but I was sick. It was neurosis…. I was so panicked after being blacklisted from 24 to 36. I mean, think about that age.

It’s your prime age as an actress.

It’s the only age. At 36, you’re a character actress. I didn’t even enter Hollywood until 36, and I spent the next 12 years trying to hide my age every way I could—on my passport, on my driver’s license, in publicity. I really was panicked they would find out how old I was and not hire me. You get a little nuts.

This was in the 1950s. Were you scared that something might go wrong during the face-lift procedure?

No. It was, “Please, save my life.”

As women we’re taught that so much of our worth is appearance-related. When you’re an actress, that pressure must be exponentially worse.

That’s all that exists in Hollywood for women. If you’re not beautiful, you’re finished. You can be cute. You can be pert. But you have to be young. It’s not like with the English, where there is a different kind of measurement. In England, you can be a 90-year-old woman, respected as an actor, and work.

You mentioned that at age 36, you’re considered a character actress….

I’ve never, ever, ever wanted to be the lead in movies. Never. Because the lead part is always attached to box office. No matter how interesting you are, if the money doesn’t come in at the box office, you don’t get your next movie. Take Faye Dunaway. She did Network, written by Paddy Chayefsky—[whom] I worship. Somebody comes along, only once a lifetime, and is able to rip the falseness off of what the industry was. But she was remarkable and got the Oscar for Network. Two pictures later, my agent, who was also her agent, was sitting in the dailies watching a film she was working on. He overheard [someone] saying, “Look at that fat pig.”

There has been a deluge of horrifying Hollywood stories in light of #MeToo. Did you have any of those kinds of encounters?

No.

What do you attribute that to?

Those years I was acting, the directors that were coming out—the Norman Jewisons, the Hal Ashbys—they were bringing a new kind of film. It wasn’t an atmosphere where old guys came on to you. My agent was gay. He couldn’t care less about me. He was crazy about Joey. [Grant married Feury in 1973.]

Anjelica Huston spoke recently about the climate in Hollywood during the 1970s, and the parties that people like Jack Nicholson threw.

That was our group. Brenda Vaccaro and Michael Douglas were together. The parties at their house were amazing—everyone you ever wanted to meet in your life. It was every week. The door opened and somebody from Paris would come in. Somebody from England. Some great comic. Every director. Everybody was kind of beautifully stoned. It was like an open house in a golden time. It had love affairs to it but no breakups.

What do you mean by that?

I mean there was a lot of flirting, but nobody broke up—except Brenda and Michael. Brenda comes here for dinner all the time, by the way. Michael and Catherine [Zeta-Jones] were just here two days ago, having dinner. I have to show you the robe she gave me. [She runs to the closet and returns with a pink robe.] This is a [Casa] Zeta-Jones.

What about your flirtations back during this period?

I remember Warren [Beatty] calling me one time after [Shampoo] was over. He said, “What are you doing tonight? You want to go down to Brenda and Michael’s, and meet there?” I said, “Sure.” I thought to myself, The film is over. He’s such a cute, sexy guy. I drove to Brenda’s house. I was sitting on the couch talking to Warren when I saw his eyes wander over to a table in the middle of the house. I turned my head, and there was Dolly Parton. I saw myself being slowly dropped. She was so gorgeous. In the middle of this party, she was writing her lists of what to get for the kitchen or something like that. I just saw him move right out of my life. Of course, she didn’t pay any attention to him, which was so much more attractive to him.

In Shampoo, you won an Oscar for playing the mother of Carrie Fisher’s character. What do you remember about her, and more generally, about being on set?

Her character played tennis, so she was in white shorts—her legs and arms were as white as her shorts were. She just was so exquisite with that little face, and her big, dark eyes. She had a mystery to her. The scene where Warren was in the bedroom with Carrie—the day before we did it, he took me aside, and he said, “You don’t know what’s going on in the bedroom between those two characters.” [Beatty wrote the script with Robert Towne.] I said, “You’re telling me what to think?” “No, but this is something you have….” He couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t stop.

I was so upset that night—that this was going to be my life for this movie, that he was going to tell me what to do and what to think—that I came in the next day, and I quit. I went up to him and I said, “I’m off the movie. You can’t tell me what to think.” Of course, he came over and said, “I’m sorry. It will never happen again.”

What happened with that scene with Carrie was that I had come in with my hair in rollers for his character to take out. [My character] was so hot—so on fire with need for sex—that I didn’t give a fuck who he fucked in that room. I just wanted him to get upstairs and do me. That’s almost the way I [myself] felt through all of that film. The set was so hot that the hairdressers were having hot dreams. It was like, whoa. I called a gay friend of mine who I’d always found so cute and so attractive, and said, “Come down from San Francisco, wherever you are, and make love to me.” He said, “You’re scaring me.”

You mentioned being game to meet up with Warren after filming. Were there any other costars you were drawn to in that way?

No. Joey was 12 years younger than me. He was a producer on commercials and was going to be traveling around the country for jobs. I knew that there was going to be some cute little girl along the way that he would, you know, spend an afternoon with, or try and pack it in with, or go to the bathroom in the airplane with. If somebody came along that I could not resist, I wouldn’t have stopped myself…. I like to flirt. It’s part of living. If he was serious about somebody, it would kill me. This is what I wrote for us when we got married….

[She gets up and returns with her and Joey’s framed marriage vows, which read: Q: Will you please continue to be my dearest friend—to be there when I am afraid or lonely or unwanted—as you always have been. To help me grow—even when growing separates us—and will you continue to acknowledge my freedom and solitary rights as I must acknowledge and respect your freedom and your solitary rights. A: I will try.]

Are there any parts you wish you could be playing now?

I have big problems remembering names. [During an intense meeting with House Un-American Activities Committee lawyers, Grant inadvertently mentioned two women; the terror that she had jeopardized their careers was so deep that recalling names continues to be a struggle.] That has spread to lines. I had a trauma when I did a Neil Simon play with Peter Falk. In the second act, I forgot my lines. It was on the Wednesday matinee of the week that we were closing. It had been running for a year. Every actor has had a moment onstage where the lines go and a costar is [usually] able to say something like, “Are you talking about eggs?” But Peter didn’t know how to save me. Peter turned to the audience and pointed at me with his thumb. All of a sudden, I was just exposed in front of these thousand people. The curtain had to come down. I tried two plays after that. I didn’t forget my lines, but I was not the great investigative actress I wanted and needed to be. I was scared. When you’re scared, you’re finished.

How incredible that you were able to pivot to filmmaking.

It took me out of actors’ hell. When I say “actors,” I mean every actor—the men, the women. You go up onstage and expose yourself. “He was good; he was bad.” “She’s getting old.” Being behind the camera and choosing what you want to explore, it freed me. You’re never free of how you look. You’re never free. I’m always…look at this stuff, you know? [She gestures to products piled high on her desk.] Makeup piled on makeup, all age-related.

There’s about to be a retrospective of your films in Manhattan. How does that feel?

It gratifies me so much. I’ve made great documentaries, really great documentaries and important ones. They were my war against the people who were blacklisting—to be able to speak with my own voice. Not acting, because, with acting, you’re saying other people’s words.

At what point did you decide you wanted to make films?

I had just come back from doing Voyage of the Damned and I got a call from AFI [American Film Institute] saying they were doing the first women’s directing workshop. I had an idea to do the play The Stronger by August Strindberg. Nothing has been that magical for me—to create a life out of four pages. When I was at the Los Angeles Film Festival for a presentation [of The Stronger], I was sitting next to Barbara Kopple. Her film came up—Harlan County, USA—about coal miners who were striking. I hadn’t seen that kind of documentary ever, and it was a life changer. I was comparing this jewel of mine to this great insight into people’s lives. I had so much to say that I couldn’t say because I was afraid I wouldn’t work again if I said it. That’s when I decided that was what I wanted to do.

Your husband has grown with you. He produced your documentaries, including Down and Out in America, which won the best documentary Oscar.

I was playing Mrs. Mussolini in Yugoslavia when Joey called and said that the documentary we wanted to do [was a go]. I remember saying, “Well, that’s such an important subject…if I can’t come back in time, let them do it [with another director]. It’s so important that.…” He said, “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you kidding me?”

In your memoir, you wrote that the blacklist taught you how to fight the bad guys. What other bad guys have you had to fight?

Well, as you and I know, we’re in a period that is rewriting and refilming exactly what I went through in the ’50s. Don’t forget that Trump said, “Where is my Roy Cohn?”—the guy who [helped create] the blacklist and was this shadow figure to Joe McCarthy. To be a part of this, at this time in my life, and after Obama.… After Obama won the election, my friend Virginia wrote me a postcard about what it was like on the street where she lived when Obama won…people coming out and looking around and asking, “Is this real? Is this a dream?” That’s how I feel about the Trump thing.

It’s difficult to know how to respond when so much is being threatened.

I wrote a letter to the Times [criticizing the response to Al Franken], and then I thought about the #MeToo thing and there was a time when Rose McGowan attacked Meryl Streep [because she worked with Harvey Weinstein for years]. The idea of women attacking women—that’s not #MeToo. The women friends I have—we worked together, we shared together, we mourned the loss of so many lives together. You don’t attack each other. I got scared. I sent the letter to Dinah, my daughter, to look at before trying to publish it. She said, “Don’t send it. At this time in your life, you don’t need to be attacked by the people you fought for.” ... I don’t know how to use Twitter. I don’t have that part of my brain. I can’t type. It left me feeling that I don’t have any weapons, and that I have no way of reaching out and saying, “Look at what you’re doing. How could you do this? [Especially] at this time.”

Having carried yourself with such strength and grace throughout such challenging periods, what advice would you give to women coming of age now?

This is a very scary world that my grandchildren are going into. How do you protect your kids? I don’t know. I live in a castle that is so beautiful to me. [She gestures to her apartment.] It has all my friends’ pictures in it. All of my friends come to the kitchen. That’s the world I want to live in. I’m frightened of that world out there. There are Trumps all over the world now. There are devastating political abusers in every country, who are taking all the money, and are leaving the people with nothing. There are rebellions all through South America. There are fires from California to Brazil. There are people begging for work. There is a man taking our troops away from Syria, so that the few allies that we have there are about to be killed. We’re living in a world that is so ugly and so unequal, that to step out of this apartment is to face a kind of reality that I never thought would be there when I was a child. It was a wonderful world. I [grew up] under Roosevelt. They were kind. They were elegant. They weren’t gangsters. These are gangsters.

Female actors are still scrutinized for their looks, obviously—and not just by producers but by critics and even the public on social media. What do you think when someone like Renée Zellweger is criticized by complete strangers about her appearance?

I hate that. That’s so petty. These are the things that worry me about the press—they don’t see what she’s gone through. They don’t see the thing that that person said about Faye Dunaway. “Big, fat pig.” They don’t see the skinning that women get in Hollywood for a wrinkle or a bag under the eye. They’re fucked. Renée Zellweger is a very charming actress. Lovely actress. Very unique. Did you see her in Judy?

Yes—and, of course, she plays Judy Garland when she’d been ravaged by the demands of Hollywood and was running on fumes.

That’s our lives, honey.