I remember, some six years ago, attending an advance screening of a film called "Mean Girls" at the Loews Theater in Washington's charming Georgetown neighborhood. If you recall, "Mean Girls" starred a promising young actress named Lindsay Lohan, and I left thinking she was the next Julia Roberts: approachably beautiful, intensely likable, and genuinely talented. She lit up the screen and radiated charm. It's not often you find that true movie star vortex of marketable appeal and acting chops for the longrun.
A few years passed, and we likely all know the story. The celebrity media and we, their always voracious consumers, turned her into a giant superstar - supposedly one of the most photographed people on the planet - and a tragic mess. Stories of erratic behavior and regular tardiness bubbled up from the set of "Georgia Rule" (a movie I thought was far better than self-righteous critics allowed) and others. The rest is sad and typical American history: the acting started getting shoddy; the legitimate jobs became few and far between; she entered and remains in a ludicrously tumultuous on/off relationship with celebri-DJ Samantha Ronson; she crashed a car or 2; was arrested for cocaine possession; went to rehab I don't even remember how many times, followed by rumors of Jack Daniels in Diet Coke cans and vodka in Voss bottles; started a tacky and overpriced line of leggings named 6126 after Marilyn Monroe's birthdate (cementing a disturbing fascination with our first Tragic Bombshell), followed by an even tackier line of spray-tanners named Sevin Nyne; filmed a movie that went straight-to-video; acquired Melanie Griffith lips and a weave not worthy of Kim Zolciak --- all the while, of course, remaining on the covers of magazines both tabloid and fashion.
Which brings us to Paris Fashion Week, where La Lohan just debuted "her" first "joint collection" with Estrella Archs for storied French fashion house Emanuel Ungaro, a show that can only be described as the most universally panned of all Fashion Month. Additionally, from NY to Paris, Lindsay has popped up in the candid photos of Olivier Zahm and Mark "Cobrasnake" Hunter at all the sceniest parties - from the Boom Boom Room to Le Baron - looking what can only be described as frighteningly wasted. Sure, she's friends with Blasberg and Andre and Irina Lazareanu now, but I have this bad feeling that another trainwreck is fast approaching. And I say this not to pile on, but more because I'm actually worried. Mssr. Zahm, of all people, is no mentor to a young addict (rumor has it he's rarely on the scene without the influence of a potent drug cocktail himself). The young fashion set - Blasberg and Lazark and the Proenza boys et al - somehow manages to bounce from late night debauchery to early morning desfiles, with at least an air of having things under control. It is clear Mlle. Lohan, on the other hand, does not.
I appeal to Emmanuelle's friends and mine to do their best not to turn a blind eye to Lohan's tragic underbelly just for the thrill of having an American icon in their midst. She's hurting, and no chic bisous will cure that.
A few years passed, and we likely all know the story. The celebrity media and we, their always voracious consumers, turned her into a giant superstar - supposedly one of the most photographed people on the planet - and a tragic mess. Stories of erratic behavior and regular tardiness bubbled up from the set of "Georgia Rule" (a movie I thought was far better than self-righteous critics allowed) and others. The rest is sad and typical American history: the acting started getting shoddy; the legitimate jobs became few and far between; she entered and remains in a ludicrously tumultuous on/off relationship with celebri-DJ Samantha Ronson; she crashed a car or 2; was arrested for cocaine possession; went to rehab I don't even remember how many times, followed by rumors of Jack Daniels in Diet Coke cans and vodka in Voss bottles; started a tacky and overpriced line of leggings named 6126 after Marilyn Monroe's birthdate (cementing a disturbing fascination with our first Tragic Bombshell), followed by an even tackier line of spray-tanners named Sevin Nyne; filmed a movie that went straight-to-video; acquired Melanie Griffith lips and a weave not worthy of Kim Zolciak --- all the while, of course, remaining on the covers of magazines both tabloid and fashion.
Which brings us to Paris Fashion Week, where La Lohan just debuted "her" first "joint collection" with Estrella Archs for storied French fashion house Emanuel Ungaro, a show that can only be described as the most universally panned of all Fashion Month. Additionally, from NY to Paris, Lindsay has popped up in the candid photos of Olivier Zahm and Mark "Cobrasnake" Hunter at all the sceniest parties - from the Boom Boom Room to Le Baron - looking what can only be described as frighteningly wasted. Sure, she's friends with Blasberg and Andre and Irina Lazareanu now, but I have this bad feeling that another trainwreck is fast approaching. And I say this not to pile on, but more because I'm actually worried. Mssr. Zahm, of all people, is no mentor to a young addict (rumor has it he's rarely on the scene without the influence of a potent drug cocktail himself). The young fashion set - Blasberg and Lazark and the Proenza boys et al - somehow manages to bounce from late night debauchery to early morning desfiles, with at least an air of having things under control. It is clear Mlle. Lohan, on the other hand, does not.
I appeal to Emmanuelle's friends and mine to do their best not to turn a blind eye to Lohan's tragic underbelly just for the thrill of having an American icon in their midst. She's hurting, and no chic bisous will cure that.
Images via Purple Diary and the Cobra Snake
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