The Girl On A Bridge

Will someone kindly convince Lindsay Lohan that three months of rehab at Betty Ford (in mid-desert, far from the usual LA temptations) is just not enough? Not for her, apparently.

Lindsay’s the actress we loved in the 1998 Parent Trap remake, where she played twins brilliantly (the role of the girls’ mother taken by the late Natasha Richardson, who at the time had two small sons but shone with the caring, kindness and fun an older daughter would need) – then, at age twelve, Lindsay seemed to have the world by the tail, with unlimited potential as an actor.

Having the world by the tail is quite different from taking the world for a spin . . . and spinning lies to people who care.

What happened to Lindsay in between 1998 and now? Too much, and a self-belief that she was capable of handling excess. No one, not even Oscar Wilde (“Nothing succeeds like excess”) can manage the interference of addiction and transform it into part of an authentically balanced life.

Now, it’s not just addiction. She’s looking at potential charges of battery, plus violation of probation in refusing to take a Breathalyzer test. These are charges that can stick and result in more jail time, which spells trouble to producers who may still believe in Lindsay’s talent and box office draw, but must protect their projects from chaos and delay. Whether the rumors – that she and friends were headed out of Betty Ford on an unauthorized quest for fun – are true or not, this young woman faces an increasing array of charges and a limit to the amount of patience and faith authorities display.

She’s not on home turf, either. Back in Los Angeles County her attorneys wring their hands over rural cops and courtrooms, but Riverside County’s jurists might not be dazzled by starlight.

Nor should they be.

Lindsay’s been given a plethora of chances. Her hand has been held, help has been made available – the Betty Ford Center is an expensive stay – all sorts of people wish she would leave the wild child behind. The only one who has control of her . . . is her.

Six months of straight-time life may be too short. Those seductive memories, memories of parties and glitz and losing herself and extinguishing pain, must have the neon ripped from them to crouch exposed and tawdry. Maybe a year is too little time for Lindsay to accomplish that.

Three months? No way, kiddo.

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