Love Island Australia

To what extent is showing a 2018 season of Love Island Australia an adequate replacement for a new series of summer Love Island in the UK?

While this is a question I could ask ITV, it’s actually the essay question I have set myself for this week’s blog entry.  No, sadly I’ve not completed an impressive foreign boxset that I’m going to tell you all about this week (though a third and final series of Dark has dropped).  So we’re turning to what is fast becoming my favourite lockdown viewing.  Let’s be honest, this pandemic has a lot to answer for.  We’re not allowed to have strangers invade our personal space on public transport.  We can’t spend all day in an office wondering what the dog is doing while we’re not home.  We can no longer speculate whether our elected (no, really) government could cope with a national crisis (they can’t).  These are all things we can live with (or without).  But when ITV pointed out that a socially-distanced version of our favourite reality dating show might not fulfil our expectations (you can’t watch a couple under a twitching duvet via night vision if they have to be two metres apart), all while having no clue whether foreign travel would be in any way possible, it felt like the final straw.  This pandemic might just be a bad thing.

However, in a stroke of genius, they decided to whack on another nation’s first series, probably reasoning it was close enough.  The good news about Australia is that we’re super familiar with it.  It doesn’t suffer from the gloss of the US’s TV output (the scripted dramas, I mean, not the dross of their political news).  Generations of Brits grew up on Ozzie soaps – every weekday dinner of mine after primary school in the early 90s was accompanied by Home & Away and Neighbours.  We swap our populations back and forth, nowhere more so than in the media industry (where I work (from home)).  Australiana is pretty easy to get used to.  In addition, the Australian version has all the familiarity of also being filmed in Majorca.  Not in the same villa, mind, but near enough.  I’m struck by the imagined statistic that 80% of this Balearic island’s GDP comes from various nations filming their versions of Love Island on it.  These two points made Love Island Australia a much more obvious choice than the US version, whose departures from key format points and inclusion of actual Americans means it loses all the charm of the original.

Alongside the classic setting, we also have the characteristically irreverent voiceover, though the Celt of choice here is an Irishman instead of a Scot.  The stray cats that visit the villa provide most of the ammo for his humour but I think we can all agree there is nothing funnier than a cat.  Just look at the reason for the internet’s invention: cat videos.  We also have a glamorous hostess entering the villa with bad news for the couples at random junctures.  Sadly, we lost the UK’s OG presenter earlier this year after our vile tabloids hounded Caroline Flack to her death yet faced no consequences, with Laura Whitmore taking over from her dear friend.  In the Australian version, former popstar Sophie Monk proves a feisty equivalent, and her antipodean vowels are so wonderful that I can’t help but suspect she may be a new character from Kath & Kim.  There are still texts with hashtags in them.  In summary, it’s similar enough then…

So, in order to answer the question (and if I learnt anything from GCSE it’s that’s you must make sure you answer the question) we need to look at the contestants.  This was perhaps my greatest stumbling block when it came to convincing myself that I had been provided with a worthy replacement.  They didn’t do much to grab me in the first episode, though the girls’ reluctance to step forth for anyone at all was amusing.  There was a major lack of diversity.  But then, with any season, it takes a few days to marinade and, before long, I began to look forward to catching up on the previous night’s shenanigans with all my new pals after a videocall-heavy day at the laptop.

Somehow, then, this can become an adequate replacement.  But there are certain rules that I must impart when it comes to being able to enjoy it as much as a brand new series of our own.  The first is that you mustn’t look ahead online to find out what the future held in store for these young Australians who are so full of hope in 2018.  To do so would deflate any of the tension that makes the show so compelling.  The second is that you need to attune to a different vibe on the behaviour.  So far, the Australian girls have proven much quicker to attack one another, never hiding their mutual dislike (split along hair colour lines) which, while a contrast to the British besties that emerge, is actually palatable as a more honest approach to the villa’s interpersonal relationships.  The boys seem to be predominantly from the socio-economic group that Australians describe as bogan, but on the whole are a slightly gruffer and less flamboyant equivalent of our own tattooed chaps.

I’ll conclude my essay with the answer to my own question.  Love Island Australia is quite an adequate replacement, offering charm and entertainment in its own way.  To illustrate, we’ll touch on my favourites of each gender.  From the boys, it’s Josh who, while one of the slenderer and under-tattoeed specimens, wins out consistently on personality simply because he speaks with the authority of someone who knows that confidence is the same as, if not better than, intelligence.  When the boys ask him for wisdom, he’s happy to fabricate his responses with the hilarious consequence that they almost always believe him.  From the girls, it’s Millie.  Shrugging off any nonsense from those of her own gender when it comes to disagreements, she’s practical and resilient, and would much rather be writhing around in the pool on an inflated flamingo than getting into arguments.  Wouldn’t we all.

Naked Attraction

In the last few days I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked if I watch Naked Attraction.  It’s a bold question for anyone to pose in an office, as it comes pre-packaged with an assumption that the asker is proudly declaring their love for nudity-based programming, displaying an unashamed love for looking at other people’s bits and pieces from the privacy and comfort of their own living room.  I can answer that question now: I don’t watch Naked Attraction.  But that doesn’t stop me going on about it here.  Besides, when I say I don’t watch it, this means I don’t make an appointment to view the onscreen wobbly bodies.  It means I don’t make a point of downloading missed episodes on a catch-up service.  But sure, I’ve flicked through the channels of a late evening and found myself transfixed by a good fifteen to twenty minutes of crotch-first dating, so we can all rest assured that I have definitely qualified myself to comment.

For those that don’t know, Naked Attraction is a dating show that gets right down to business.  Our singleton is presented with six potential partners, obscured from their view by coloured screens.  As you would have guessed from its title, there is nudity.  But while our chooser is fully clothed, those that are submitting themselves for selection or rejection have taken off their vest and pants beforehand and are awaiting judgment in the altogether.  Bit by literal bit, the screens reveal the bodies behind, but we start below the waist, only factoring the face into things at a final stage.  After each round, one contestant is cruelly purged, judged to have the wrong genitalia and the game goes on.  The action culminates in the chooser disrobing for the final decision, joining in all the bare-arsery, putting the cock (or pea) in peacocking with visible relish at the thought of finally making everyone else look at their junk.

Regular readers will know I love a boundary-pushing format, but I just can’t get the commissioning meeting for this one out of my head.  It’s one thing to greenlight a naked dating show – Britain could do with taking a more European approach to nudity (shrugging with disinterest rather than pointing and laughing), but the fact that this goes beyond unclothed coupling up and pivots on the first impressions people’s external sex organs make on each other must have made for an interesting PowerPoint presentation.  “So, the entrants look at each other naked and we see if sparks fly?” is what I presume the Channel 4 commissioner asked.  “Not quite,” must have come the response, “one contestant looks only at the other’s privates in order to determine if they are a suitable life partner.”

I suppose it gets any awkwardness out of the way that may come up later down the line.  Nobody wants to have wasted three evenings of their life in various Pizza Express branches before finally getting down to consensual rumpy pumpy, only to find that what lies beneath falls short of expectations.  Why not be upfront about what you want?  Judith from series five (yes, five) certainly has been, and this is what has got our prudish British tongues a-wagging.  Asked for her ideal man, she was candid in her prerequisite of eight to eleven inches.  And fair play to her – it’s not the Dark Ages so we’ve no right to sneer at an older church-going lady who likes to accommodate well-endowed chaps.  Finding out these details is the wonderful Anna Richardson, mastering the hosting art of not looking at the choosing contestants’ crotches in each final round, probably because so many eyefuls are forced upon her beforehand, eagerly examining each mons and foreskin with that week’s date-seeking hopeful.  I imagine she has ensured the clauses in her contract stipulating no obligation for her to join in with the naturism are clad in iron.

Why shouldn’t real bodies get more airtime on TV?  Naked Attraction has been applauded for its inclusiveness, with every shape, size and hue of human mixed in among the skin-showing.  Where it finds contestants willing to undergo such scrutiny is anyone’s guess.  It would be impossible to avoid any awkwardness, especially as the scrutinees can’t speak until later rounds, resulting in people trying to answer questions with eye-level hip shimmies until you can almost hear the pubic hair rustling.  My favourite delicate moment is when the chooser meets the rejected contenders.  It answers the question to which humankind has long pondered the answer: how do you hug someone when one of you is naked?  The solution: the crotch-back hug.  Participants lean in from a slightly more distant stance than they would normally, sticking their bottoms back a little more lest bare flaccid willy graze someone’s jeans.

The toe-curling is actually strongest once the clothes are back on and we witness the final pairing’s first date, reassuringly conducted in a well-lit public space in case anyone tries to slip their slip off again and parade around desperately seeking attention.  The matches rarely work out, despite both having the unhinged glint in their eye that they are perfectly willing to take part in a national television show whose main premise is the detailed scrutiny of their reproductive organs.  Watch it at your own peril and talk about it at work while running a similar risk that everyone thinks you’re a titspervert.  But let’s shed our inhibitions like candidates shed their underpants and knickers.  If they’re happy living free of shame that their scrotum is extra dangly or that their labia are unique, then you can be free of shame that you spend your evenings looking at them.

Made In Chelsea

In a wild departure for the 104^th blogpost spectacular (please make sure you’ve read them all or don’t speak to me anymore) I’m branching out to sneer at a show I don’t actually watch.  Made In Chelsea popped politely onto our screens in 2011 and, of the 17 series and five abroad specials so far (and counting) I would say I am about 199 episodes short of the 200 plus that have cluttered up various e4 schedules in the eight years since.  But that doesn’t stop me weighing in with a few thoughts and observations, as its cultural influence is so great that even non-viewers like me can’t exist quietly without a passing awareness of its stars and storylines.  To summarise the action for those that have never tuned in for the adventures of Proudlock, Mark-Francis, Jamie, Victoria and chums, Made In Chelsea is a scripted reality show following a bunch of the well-groomed progeny of wealthy families living it up in London’s cash-drenched SW3 while dating each other silly.  In my (very grown-up) job alone, teams have used Chelsea talent in advertising campaigns and even sponsored the bloody show itself.  I don’t know if I could sit through an episode (and we all know I’ll watch anything) but let’s celebrate this modern juggernaut that yields no signs of stopping.

We’ll talk casting first.  In a noughties update of the Sloane Ranger, Made In Chelsea’s guys and gals are all posh.  In fact, it’s probably the main thing about the whole production.  This has a great bonus in creating watchable telly.  Posh people have often had access to good educations.  As such, the cast members are all more articulate than your average attention seeker.  They know the long words and that.  In addition, there’s something about their boarding school humour that layers a little bit of wittiness over the top.  That, and some cracking diction that hits every consonant, never dropping an H, gives the snob in us all an aspirational viewing experience.  I’m not saying posh people are better than normos like us, but let’s face it, they are worth more (based on the investment in their education).  But it’s not just the cast that are filtered to create a better version of reality…

The locations!  After 12 years living in London, I’ll be the first to admit it can be a hideous hellhole.  When the skies are grey and the drizzle persistent, there are concrete neighbourhoods that can bring a man to weeping, whether you’re stuck on a bus on Southampton Row or picking litter off your shoe in Clapham Junction.  Somehow, however, the researchers, location scouts and producers on Made In Chelsea make the city look immaculate.  Maybe it’s the lenses they use, or the fact they stay around the King’s Road, or perhaps they have an inordinate budget for special effects, but every location the cast rock up at for passive-aggressive discussions of dating etiquette makes you want to go there.  It could be a bar you know is shit – Made In Chelsea will have you grabbing your coat and heading out the door before your Millennial mind can repossess its senses.  Then you realise that you can’t actually afford to be out all the time, as your parents didn’t found the McVitie’s biscuit empire, reminding us all that London is a great place, but only if you’re rich.

And so we come on to how Made In Chelsea really has nothing to do with reality.  We’re not simply a fly on the wall.  Instead, each scene is set up with rigorous control.  Sure, the conceit is that two big-haired young rahs have run into each other on the street, but the establishing tracking shots and the fact than any homeless people have been cajoled out of screen betray a strong sense that everything is ruthlessly planned.  Ours ear are bathed in an expertly curated soundtrack (while the theme music, Midnight City by M83, has been used in every media creds reel I ever seen in my job over the last eleven years), which then fades out so the awkward dialogue may start.  I know I’ve mentioned the cast are good conversationalists, but, for some unknown reason, every scene only cranks into gear after several verbal misfires that not only make my toes curl up, they rip themselves off and run out the room screaming.  Here’s how our exchanges usually begin, following on from the interstitial shots of the road name sign or someone pouring cocktails:

“Oh hey Hortense; how lovely to see you.”

“Spiffy – I didn’t expect to see you here.”

*air kiss, air kiss, air kiss*

“So, how are you?”

“Oh, you know, really busy.  How are you?”

“Really busy.”

*awkward pause*

“It’s fortuitous that I have seen you really because, er, I wanted to…”

And then you just insert any of the following and you have yourself an episode:

“I wanted to ask you about last night with Arabella.”

“I wanted to know why you have been talking about Winston.”

“I wanted to let you know that I also really really like Georgie.”

If that imagined script has failed to bring it to life for you, then please watch this excellent parody from Watson & Oliver that perfectly captures the inanity.  People call this entertainment, but it’s no different to being pulled for a chat around the gardens of the Love Island villa, only the latter situation has more brow sweat and fewer items of clothing.  But this is where my interest dies: the Made In Chelsea storylines revolve solely around dating.  It’s as if they are all terrified of being alone (with their millions).  If I were them, I would focus on enjoying my life (and my money) and maybe volunteer in the community, certain that true love would find me only when I was least expecting it.  But that wouldn’t make very good drama, would it?

Where the wheels really come off is any multi-cast member party scene.  Aimless extras shuffle about clutching drinks while our romantic leads are brought to the fore to thrash out whatever dating shenanigans we have all lost interest in.  Loud music would interfere with the mics, so everyone must sway in time to silence so that the tunes can be added later, giving things an even more stilted edge than normal.

But I’m not a hater of Made In Chelsea.  There are many things to love.  You can’t beat a posh nickname, with many of the girls monickered with increasingly euphemistic ones, from Caggie to Toff to Binky.  Why not just be done with it and introduce the following new cast members: Jizzy, Flappy and Titty?  Either way, the Chelsea lot are always charming – Cheska was beyond professional when she did commercial work for us, while those that have popped up in Celebrity Big Brother or I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here have been a joy to have on screen.  I’ve even bumped into Spencer at my gym, and by bump, I mean I almost fell over his dog.

So, in the world of reality TV, Made In Chelsea is like the King’s Road – it’s nicer than the alternatives.  Whereas shopping on Oxford Street with the great unwashed hordes requires having to press the button and wait for the green man so you can be chased across the road by an angry cab driver while carrying your poverty-indicating Primark bags, the King’s Road has lovely zebra crossings so you can strut out into traffic at any juncture, beelining for Jack Wills, and the BMWs and Mercedes politely halt lest you be turned into expensive roadkill.  London is run for the wealthy, by the downtrodden, but watching Made In Chelsea at least gives you an hour’s fantasy that you’re rubbing shoulders with the right crowd.