To a Boomer walking by, Love Island must look like the end of the world. Their kid, deteriorating on the couch, transfixed to a TV screen with slow-motion butts rippling like a wave pool. A slutty, neon Barbie dreamhouse, set to synth-pop. One flash of a girl in a bikini and heels, tonguing a footballer in slides and socks—and they’ve seen enough. Love Island is what would happen if you cut the intercourse out of a porn video and stretched the awkward lead-up over 38 hour-long episodes, airing once a day, for eight weeks straight, until you beg for mercy.
The premise of the reality dating show is simple: Ship a bunch of Instagram model-types to a villa in Fiji, where they couple up, then “recouple” (swap partners), trying to sort themselves into the optimal arrangement of duos. The contestants sleep in one huge room with six beds, limbs rustling suspiciously under night-vision cameras. Along the way, their bonds are stress-tested through jealousy-inducing challenges and Movie Night, where the islanders watch unseen clips of each other’s indiscretions. Islanders can be swiftly ousted for not being liked by the public, their partner, or anyone. At the end, viewers vote for their favorite couple, and the two winners split $100,000.
Yes, it all appears to be the work of a pervy, cracked-out producer preying on duck-lipped fame goblins. But for viewers, the daily airing of episodes creates the illusion of real-time connection with the contestants—as though we’re experiencing the shake-ups alongside them. And though it may seem like the young people who watch it are tossing out brain cells like confetti, we’re actually learning a lot from Love Island.
