Monday, 2 July 2018

My unashamed love for Love Island.

I have watched this entire season of Love Island so far without any sense of irony. I've enjoyed every bit of it and I'm not remotely sorry.

I have been absolutely compelled by the sense of intrigue, the clash of personalities, the betrayal, the female friendships, the unwavering dedication to a narrow standard of beauty, the unwavering pursuit of fame and money.

I love the ironic voice over which constantly acknowledges the producers' obvious manipulation of the islanders' terrible behaviour, like some meta-theatrical technique. I love feeling quietly happy with myself when I've chosen a favourite islander whose actions and behaviour remain impeccable despite adverse conditions (Dani), and I love believing that some of the couples have found genuine love on this show designed for fakery and juicy gossip. I actually love immersing myself into it despite its consumerist, ageist, ableist, sexist, homophobic and vaguely racist tendencies because it never lets you forget it is any of those things. It is like a Brechtian form of theatre where the audience is constantly reminded of the unreality in an attempt to make them think harder about the content...

Okay, I'm not going to pretend this show is in any way intellectual, but it is, without a doubt, some sort of brilliant social experiment with some of the vainest, most beautiful, most dense (and strictly heterosexual) people this country has to offer. It's like after years of reality TV they finally perfected it into something truly awful and delicious. Like a sugary dessert, it's not doing anything good for your insides but the process of eating it is entirely enjoyable.

I was going to write something about the judgement of other people's tastes and the false sense of intellectual superiority for not watching it but, frankly, Love Island probably isn't worth it. It is what it is, take it or leave it, but I will be having the dessert and eating it, in this case.