Believe me, I understand.
I understand because I was there too.
I was the one rolling my eyes at coworkers fangirling over their favorite suitor. I was there in the background, reveling in a smug, entirely undeserved sense of superiority as my girlfriend yelled at White-Handsome-Man for not choosing Smart-Lovable-Girl over Obvious-Villian-Girl.
How could anyone become so invested in the mindless, totally-scripted trials and tribulations of beautiful TV people (BTVP)?
In Love Island, I found my answer.
Filmed over the course of about two months, Love Island documents the day-in-day-out of its constantly rotating cast of BTVP, or “Islanders,” as they couple-up, dump each other, and engage in trivial, ultimately meaningless drama. Each episode captures roughly 24 hours in the resort villa, and every week or so the UK public votes to dump someone (or some couple) off of “the island.” The last remaining couple receives a slightly underwhelming prize of 50,000 GBP and a significant boost in Instagram followers.
Here, I think it is important to mention that I live in California and watched the most recent season on Hulu close to a month after the finale aired. I did not, and could not, vote and did not have the experience of learning the fate of the BTVP in real time as many did.
Despite my delayed viewing, and my predisposition to believing I was better than binge-watching 57 (yes, 57) episodes of what I would, in the past, deem as “trash tv,” here I am, a man humbled and changed.
I watched the first few episodes in a manner I’m sure many well-meaning, too-cool-for-this boyfriends do: ironically.
It is, however, difficult not to get caught up in the endless, manufactured mini-dramas suffered by the cast of Love Island. The always-filming nature of the show means that viewers are watching as the Islanders wake up, eat breakfast, lie poolside for a daily average of 16 hours (the sunscreen budget alone must have been astronomical), and chat shit amongst themselves.
Every week or so, the Islanders are forced to “re-couple.” This is essentially a ritual in which either the men or women (on an alternating basis) choose who their partner will be for the next week. Couples share a bed (next to every other couple in a fairly awkward dorm-ish situation) and compete to win in challenges pitting them against the other duos. Those who are not chosen by a member of the opposite sex are sent immediately from the island, and shiny, new BTVP arrive at the island every week in a transparent bid to stir-up jealousy.
Soon and seemingly against my own will, I began to empathize with the Islanders. Watching them live entire days and nights in the picturesque, made-for-TV villa quite surprisingly did more to bring out the humanity of the cast than it did to glamorize them. Over the course of two months, viewers watch friendships form and break, relatable episodes of jealousy and paranoia, and actual, tangible feelings forming between the Islanders.
In this way, Love Island is, oddly enough, one of the more “real” reality shows I’ve personally ever seen.
Unlike other programs that might present individuals as easily palatable archetypes or cliches (“the cowboy,” “the bookish girl,” “the doctor,” etc.), I found that Love Island does its cast justice in fleshing them out as individuals with motives, quirks, and histories. This allows for full empathetic buy-in when the drama arises, and it always does (isn’t that kind of the whole point?).
Over the course of my two weeks of binging the fourth season of Love Island, I cringed, laughed, cried (yep), picked favorites, yelled at my television, danced (the transitions are admittedly catchy), and honest-to-god learned something about human nature, even if it was just my own.
Is Love Island something special?
Maybe. Or maybe I’m just ready to enjoy it.
Blakeley 