Picture the scene: I’m in a lift and a high powered TV executive gets in alongside me. Here’s my chance, I think, hitting the emergency stop and turning to her with crazed hope in my eyes. “I’ve got an elevator pitch I think you’re going to want to hear,” I babble as her eyes do a micro-roll towards heaven and she shifts the weight on her feet in a manner that screams “I’m going to have you murdered for daring to talk to me”. I remain unperturbed. “Imagine Love Island, right?...”
She doesn’t even try to disguise her second eye roll.
“… But it’s just normal people wearing Marks & Spencer swimsuits and eating dinners and maybe not arriving in off the road into the villa in a string bikini and six inch heels. Everyone knows you wear comfy trousers and a light T-shirt with a hoodie for the plane when you’re going on holidays. We could have Love Island but when they first meet each other they’re wearing linen pedal pushers and a breathable runner?”
The TV exec hits the button to get the lift going again, gracing me with 1.5 seconds of eye contact.
“I don’t think anyone would watch that, do you?”
The 2021 series of Love Island has had its fair share of troubles. It kicked off with lower-than-usual ratings and struggled to get going as none of the matched-up couples seemed to gel or even really like each other. There was a lot of talk about the format being tired, about the contestants being both too self-aware and too clued in about the mechanics of the show, while simultaneously drumming up concern that they were the biggest group of dumdums to ever go into the villa.
As an avid viewer for the past five years even I started to worry that Love Island had really jumped the shark. It’s well known for its cast of beautiful, perma-tanned Instagram-famous contestants. These young men and women are assumed to be in it only for the celebrity and the fast-fashion sponsorship deals.
They’ve adopted the lingo and rituals of previous seasons and insist that they subject their telly relationships to “tests” of loyalty and toe-curling expressions of romance – one of this year’s contestants asked his lady of choice if she wanted to “be exclusive” by writing the question in Sharpie on a series of hand towels, Love Actually style. “The good towels!” we screamed at the TV, knowing damn well that the stains will last far, far longer than the relationship in question.
It was hard for me to hear Love Island criticised for being boring and lacking in any kind of spark, but I had to admit that they really seemed to be dragging the proverbial a**e out of it. Any moments of drama and romance were tainted by cruelty and duplicitous behaviour. Where was the warmth, fun and giddiness that had made previous series such hits?
In fairness, as Love Island 2021 heads for its finale – airing August 23rd – some of that magic has started to shine through. The genuine friendship between the female cohort of contestants has been a joy to watch, as have the redemption arcs of a couple of the men who previously seemed unsalvageable.
Still though, does the general ill-will towards this year’s show spell the end for Love Island? The shine may have seemingly worn off it as it is now, but the show’s social media impact is as colossal as ever, and ratings have recovered since the initial drag.
For a programme that airs almost nightly for two months, that’s not bad going. I think it has one more year left in its current iteration. What could save it is a rejig in format to change it from a platform for the beautiful to a playground for the normal who are genuinely on the hunt for love and don’t mind doing so on telly.
The villa, the sun, the mortifying dormitory bedroom should all be kept, but how much better would it be if the contestants were divorcees or single parents or dotes who never got over their first love? Maybe they’re larger than a size ten or have a belly, or a 2002 Nissan Almera?
Ding! Going up!
