Ah, Love Island (cracks knuckles), we have been waiting for you. The seventh series of the fake-tanned ratings-cum-branding juggernaut returned to Mallorca after 18 months of pandemic-induced hiatus, hailed as “the most commercialised show on British television” (boasting £12m in advance revenue, and asking £100,000 a pop for the interminable adverts). But – oh dear – Love Island’s first episode was beaten by some Euro-themed football tournament (anyone know anything about this? They’re keeping it very quiet), and by the tennis at Wimbledon. Clearly, it wasn’t the best of weeks to launch, and viewing figures will rally. Won’t they? I’m not sure, and I’m someone who consumes dating shows to the point where my brain cells start popping like neurobiological bubble wrap. Even before the enforced break, Love Island was darkening and buffering as a cultural phenomenon: the formula (sex/sun/fun) seeming both tired and tarnished. The tragic suicides of presenter Caroline Flack and former contestants Sophie Gradon and Mike Thalassitis cast a long shadow too. The show returns with new, strict (and overdue) duty of care protocols, though fears that it may have turned into “Amish Island” seem somewhat unfounded. As presenter Laura Whitmore swished into the villa, the overriding swimwear trend among the female contestants was “copious underboob” (for our more innocent readers, this is when flesh escapes from beneath insufficient fabric. You’re welcome). Meanwhile, the male musculature on display evoked the bricks in Pink Floyd’s wall. (When it comes to instilling body insecurities in viewers, Love Island is all about equality: it wants both sexes to feel bad about themselves.) Before long, partners were being selected, then rejected, with underboobed brutality (“He’s taller”). Indeed, while some contestants seemed sweet and genuine, there was the usual quota of Instagram/ OnlyFan-ers whose dark, naughty hearts beat only for maximum exposure. So far, so quintessential Love Island: a congealing, addictive, post-cultural damp patch of sun cream, high hopes, crushed dreams, brazen commercial interests and those omnipresent water bottles. The question is: is Love Island strong enough, fresh enough, these days? There’s just so much competition, from Naked Attraction (“Inspect my genitals, then date me”) to Too Hot to Handle (contestants refrain from instantly having sex, otherwise known as normality), and more … SO MANY MORE. Coming soon (really) is Netflix’s dating cosplay show Sexy Beasts, where people meet, disguised in Masked Singer-type costumes, because nothing screams “hot!” more than someone wearing a panda head. Next to these developments in dating show evolution, Love Island could start looking dangerously passé. The first of the three-part documentary series Ghislaine Maxwell: Epstein’s Shadow, directed by Barbara Shearer, had a telling opening scene where Maxwell was being questioned by a reporter as she walked along a snowy street with her parka hood obscuring her features. Maxwell’s first riposte to the reporter was a drawled “Happy New Year”. To me, her attitude seemed to say: “This is merely a tedious game the little people are making me play. They’ll soon realise that I’m immune to possible consequences. I’m too bright, too connected, too special.” Well, that was then. Maxwell’s former partner, wealthy financier and convicted sexual predator Jeffrey Epstein, killed himself in his prison cell awaiting trial in 2019. Maxwell is on remand in a notoriously tough holding facility in Brooklyn, facing charges (the trial is slated to start later this year) as co-conspirator in the trafficking of women and underaged girls, to which she pleads not guilty. The gruesome details of the allegations against Maxwell are well documented: that she procured “nubiles” (note the telling dehumanisation) to feed Epstein’s sexual appetites. That, furthermore, by using Maxwell’s contacts (her notorious little black book), she and Epstein managed to ingratiate himself in circles that included presidents (Trump and Clinton) and, of course, British royalty (the famously non-sweating Prince Andrew). Considering Netflix’s recent Jeffrey Epstein: Filthy Rich, the series was probably wise to perform its deep dive on Maxwell, but with so many people refusing to be interviewed on camera, things became somewhat repetitive, to the point where I now feel a strange intimacy with Maxwell’s Oxford contemporary, the journalist Anna Pasternak, who appeared on camera approximately once a minute. This first episode was dedicated to what made Maxwell what she was, and it was dominated by her terrifying father, the disgraced press baron Robert Maxwell (who drowned falling off a boat in the Canary Islands in 1991, having taken hundreds of millions from the Mirror’s pension fund to prop up his company). While it would in no way excuse Ghislaine Maxwell’s alleged crimes, the “daddy’s girl” theory could go some way to explaining how she might come to feel that this was the sole valid template for alpha-masculinity. Still, here it was overplayed, becoming a little offensive and frankly monotonous. Looking at future episodes, the sense continued that the numerous Epstein victims, such as the featured Maria Farmer, deserved far more airtime than they got. I was primed to love the 10-part US comedy-drama Physical, starring Rose Byrne, created by Annie Weisman. It’s about Sheila, 1980s housewife and one-time hippy idealist in San Diego, who controls her self-loathing by binge-eating junk food in motels, then making herself vomit. As her sexist, irritating husband (Rory Scovel) loses his job and runs for political office, she becomes obsessed with aerobics, starting her own class and embracing the redemptive power of exercise. The major problem with Physical is Sheila’s relentless, self-berating inner narrative. After the first few outbursts (“Wrinkles and zits – that’s a really sexy cocktail you’re serving up”), it becomes irksome. Other problems include a bizarrely dud soundtrack (come on, Apple, you have a rather large music catalogue at your disposal) and the slack attempt at retro: the 80s were about more than ghetto-blasters and legwarmers, and if Sheila’s Flashdance hair is supposed to be a perm, it needs more frizz. Worse, Physical’s pace drags: halfway through, Sheila is only just thinking of videoing her aerobics moves. I’ll keep watching for Byrne (such dynamite in Damages, and as Gloria Steinem in last year’s Mrs America), but, sadly, thus far, Physical hasn’t quite made it out of the changing room. What else I’m watching Hemingway (BBC Four) | iPlayer Documentarian Ken Burns explores the legacy of the Nobel prize-winning American author Ernest Hemingway in this six-part series, co-directed by Lynn Novich. Meryl Streep, Jeff Daniels and Patricia Clarkson read extracts from his work. Storyville: Petite Fille (BBC Four) | iPlayer Sébastien Lifshitz’s feature-length documentary follows seven-year-old Sasha, who was born a boy but yearns to be accepted as girl. Delicately executed, it emerges as an intense, sometimes harrowing account of child gender dysphoria. Euro 2020 (BBC/ITV) Wimbledon (BBC) | itv.com/iPlayer At the time of writing, England had beaten Germany to proceed to a quarter-final with a worryingly hungry- looking Ukraine and Andy Murray had fought his way through a Wimbledon third round. We’ll know by now whether it all ended in cheers or tears.