When Kaz and Wes went on their ‘romantic’ sunset picnic in a field outside the villa, all I could think was “God, those midges must be biting something terrible.”
Reader, I watched Love Island so you don’t have to. (Who am I kidding? You’re all watching it too.)
During my odyssey into Love Island, I, as much as anyone, was dragged into its ludicrous non-drama (if the rest of us can make mountains out of molehills, the islanders would be capable of building the Alps) and admittedly often hilarious narration. Love Island is the kind of show that can be addictive if you don’t think about it for too long.
The latest fad in a generation of TV shows which put constructed personal lives on display, Love Island contestants are locked in a luxury villa in Mallorca with the promise that if they can survive eight weeks of bad chat-up lines, petty arguments and sexually suggestive challenges, they’ll be in with the chance to win £50,000. If Big Brother and Geordie Shore had a shotgun wedding followed by a baby on the Costa del Sol (probably only to discover years later that Take Me Out was the real father), it would look a little like this.
The contestants are ostensibly on the lookout for ‘love’, as they couple up with other islanders in the search for a match who can win their heart (and that cash prize). Except, of course, that Love Island is about as romantic as drywall. In the real world, love relies on certain characteristics – trust, integrity, the ability to hold a conversation about anything other than your bitchy housemates – which are actively discouraged by the competitive nature of the villa. Despite having all the window dressings of romance to hand, from twinkling lights to a plush hotel-style ‘hideaway’, romance is hard to conjure on this soulless island. When Kaz and Josh went on their ‘romantic’ sunset picnic in a nearby field, all I could think was “God, those midges must be biting something terrible.”
That is not to say that show doesn’t say something about a modern dating culture in which being “up for it” is paramount and potential relationships can be evaluated based on a few photos and an inclination to swipe right or left. But for such a ‘modern’ show, it clings to traditional, heteronormative, even implicitly misogynistic ideas about relationships. Contestants literally give up their lives for two months in order to pursue them. This so-called Love Island is, at a stretch, about lust. But let’s be honest, even then there’s probably more chemistry in a bottle of TK Red Lemonade than there is between any of the competitors.
So if we’re not watching because we believe the people on this show will fall in love, why are we watching? Because when you look under the surface, so much of Love Island is at best, bizarre, and at worst, kind of disturbing. It does away with the over-35s category altogether, preferring to pretend that people ineligible for lad-culture holidays to Magaluf don’t exist. (It must be a shock to leave the island and discover that, thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, some people live well into their eighties.) Female contestants wear neon bikinis like a uniform. Newcomers pull dates out of existing couples in the hope of starting a new relationship, like a burglar smashing a hammer through your window and then asking if you fancy some new blinds.
In the panopticon of Casa Amor, a reported sixty-nine cameras capture every moment of the inmates’ – sorry, islanders’ – lives. Personal space is a thing of the past in a villa which only hosts dormitories full of double beds. Such are the rules that there was outrage this week as Sam and Georgia (then recent exes, now back together and out of the villa) dared to cuddle on the sofa.
Only dinner is not filmed, so the crew can swoop in to change mic packs. It’s also convenient if, say, you’d like to avoid showing a group of young men and women eating one of the larger meals of the day, giving the impression that this tanned, toned and thin cabal subsist on little more than eggs and avocado. On the rare occasion the contestants are allowed to be seen giving their body the nutrients it needs to survive, it’s in the context of a date, which reminds the viewer that the real purpose of such mundane activities is, of course, to finish getting grilled sweet potato down your throat and move onto getting up close and personal with the nearest scantily-clad biped.
It at least appears that they’re getting plenty of liquids – the sound of clinking cocktail glasses rings out almost every night. There are rumours that the contestants are restricted to just one or two, but this is presumably more so they don’t turn to alcohol to numb the sheer boredom of the place than anything else.
Love Island’s parameters represent an older generation’s idea of what younger generations aspire to. Apparently, hook-ups, hench abs, and tan so thick you could put it on toast fulfil everything these youngsters could want. A lethal mixture of Fiat 500 Twitter, lads lads lads and occasional bemused onlookers, audiences as high as 3.4 million have been tuning in to watch the drama unfold at the villa – but even off-camera the islanders are constantly watched.
If Big Brother and Geordie Shore had a shotgun wedding followed by a baby on the Costa del Sol (probably only to discover years later that Take Me Out was the real father), it would look a little like this.
According to one former winner, show employees known as chaperones are responsible for everything from making sure nothing juicy happens over dinner when it could be aired by the pool or on the sun loungers to pulling islanders aside after they’ve had sex. Reports of any situation of dubious consent or coercion would reflect very badly on what has been one of ITV’s biggest ratings successes of the year. Why use independent professionals who may encourage islanders do what’s best for themselves when paid-up members of a production team can act as counsellors following a ‘night in the hideaway’?
Still, the lure of that cash prize and the chance to launch a career based on appearances in a further string of reality TV shows and the pages of gossip mags must be tempting. These twenty-somethings (and one or two thirty-somethings) certainly have ambition. Trained doctor Alex gave up saving lives for the chance to lounge around the villa, while Georgia clearly aims to build her brand around her trademark ‘loyalty.’ (“‘Loyal’ by Georgia: the fragrance coming to an outlet shopping centre near you soon.”) A handful of contestants have left voluntarily, including Samira, who gave up her shot at fifty grand in the wake of forgettable island partner Frankie being voted out by the public. This was naturally followed by an appearance on daytime TV. Other former islanders have gone on to the illustrious heights of The Only Way is Essex, Ibiza Weekender, Ex on the Beach, Dancing on Ice, and even a Comic Relief special of The Weakest Link.
So why do millions of people suddenly find a show that is objectively terrible – even verging mildly disturbing – so addictive? The nightly format is as close to binge-watching as terrestrial television gets, leaving audiences on tenterhooks for just twenty-four hours before their next hit. A 9pm time-slot positions the show as an alternative to the usual slew of bleak crime dramas and talky current affairs, with the added frisson of potential post-watershed filth. And of course, it coincided with the World Cup, when considerable numbers of people were sitting down for an extra dose of telly each night anyway. With the aesthetic of ‘could snap a holiday Instagram at any moment’, audiences are encouraged to get vocal across social media platforms, with some tweets being used in challenges. The show can even be genuinely funny, and there are certainly couples who stand out. (I’m still haunted by Jack and Dani’s squawking trip to the supermarket in search of fajitas.)
Love Island is about love the same way clubbing is about music: that is, not really, at best scraping by on a technicality. There is technically the potential for people to fall in love on the show, in the same way that the racket poured out by most half-cut amateur DJs after 2am technically has a melody in there somewhere. Instead, it’s far more about fuelling the twenty-first century’s hunger for easy-watching, trash TV. It’s a popularity contest which appeals to base instincts like judgement, vanity – and the deep, unquenchable human need for gossip.
