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One source of constant irritation to her is what she believes is the repressed body language of women in her audiences. "I see these very stiff, inhibited women who move and act so much like my character Mrs. Beasley, and I think it's criminal. This is what the culture has done to a lot of women—made them so uptight, so uncertain, so thwarted. It's a matter of power and powerlessness.
"I'm not too articulate about this," she adds. "1 know things intuitively more than I know them verbally, but my instincts are sharp. I do a one-liner that says it: "Have you ever seen a man walk up to four women sitting together in a bar and say, 'Hey, what are you doing here all alone?' " Still, she does not intrude her sexual politics into the show, and she makes fun of everyone, feminists included. "What," she asks, "would be your position on women's lib if you were a passenger on the Titanic?"
Money still means freedom to her, but in a day when a Brando or a Redford can make up to $2 million for one picture, her earnings are relatively modest. Nashville netted her only $12,000, The Late Show $100,000. She estimates her annual income at $200,000. Partly out of caution, partly out of preference, she lives modestly. She and her crew of three or four travel economy class—"I could afford first, but it seems to me to be an insult to my family and the life we've known."
In Los Angeles, Lily shares a house off the Sunset Strip with Jane Wagner, who is also 37. Born in Tennessee, Wagner began writing for TV when she failed to score as an actress; she won a Peabody Award in 1969 for a children's show about a black child growing up in New York. Since then, she has won three Emmys producing and writing Lily's specials.
Even a Spartan might call Lily's lifestyle spartan, and the house, painted a cerulean blue, is small, almost a parody of a star's usual manse. "If I hit the skids tomorrow," she says, "I could still afford the house." She has a jukebox in the living room, an upright piano in the foyer and a small, cluttered study downstairs, with pictures of cherished stars of the past like Marilyn Monroe and Clark Gable. The ceiling of her bedroom is painted sky blue, with puffy white summer clouds—her brother Richard's artwork. In the back there is a small swimming pool, beside which stand a 6-ft. metal robot, a souvenir from one of her TV specials, and a stone statue of a naked maiden—wearing a wig and sunglasses. Out front is a 1955 Dodge Royal Lancer. One of the ugliest cars ever to come out of Detroit, it is nonetheless a treasure to her: "I like cars that look like real cars I could identify when 1 was a kid."
Food is as often forgotten as remembered. When it does come to mind, it is usually taken at some place like Hamburger Hamlet, which is near by. "Lily's idea of a night on the town is to go to Hamburger Hamlet, have dinner and then go back home and work," says Richard, a Lily look-alike who makes furniture with friends in a handicraft shop. "You can go crazy at her house. The phone is ringing all the time, with writers or producers talking deals. Lily literally works around the clock. How she juggles everything, I couldn't tell you. It's a madhouse half the time."