What does “The Year of Making Love” teach us about relationships?

Answer: probably nothing. But there's a deeper point - is going on telly what it takes to find love these days?

Will brought a rose. Kay looked suitably impressed. “Do I fancy him?” she asked the camera. “Maybe. I don’t know his personality yet, so that’s a big thing. I’m looking forward to finding out what he’s like.” Will was a little more forthright in his assessment. “I wouldn’t say I fancied her yet,” he told the camera with what a tabloid reporter might describe as a ‘cheeky smile’. “One thing that’s clouding my judgement at the moment is that I’ve seen another girl sitting quite close to our table that I do find attractive and is probably more my normal type...” Then I watched Rogan and Natalie go on a first date before “sharing a bed” (demure choice of words the voiceover lady’s, not mine). Next morning, Natalie divulged no information; Rogan smiled demurely at the camera. And then Andy went with Kirsty to Amsterdam, his plan being to “ask her out when we get there.” Months – or twenty-something minutes later – Newquay sunset in the background, Andy leaned in and told Kirsty: “I’m in love with you. You’re absolutely an amazing girl.” They kissed in the surf and the programme-makers played a gentle neo-folk song over the moment. 

I have been watching The Year of Making Love on BBC Three for the last few weeks, and I am exhausted. It’s basically a social experiment, something they’ve called “Britain’s biggest blind date”, in which three experts have used “scientifically robust” compatibility tests to match up hundreds of couples. Their cameras will follow the pairings for a year, to see if scientific matchmaking can yield love. “Millions of people are single because they’re hooked on this crazy idea that there’s just one perfect person out there,” says Thomas the profiler. “The reality is that we have several potential good matches.”Over the course of the six episodes, we see just a few of these unions (if not the ‘science’ that matched them in the first place) and not all of them are good.

The overwhelming take-home from watching other people actively seeking and then pursuing love is “gosh, that looks like a lot of work”. There was snogging, there were awkward chats, a lot of booze. And there were a whole series of baffling (to my clearly under-achieving eyes) dates set up: one woman set up her date at the gym, where the fledgling couple took a lesson in Muy Thai boxing. One told her date to prepare material for a short set at an open mic comedy night. Another couple went sky-diving. I sat watching at home, wrapped  in a blanket, agog. Whatever happened to a nice cup of tea and a sit down? Never have I been more bewildered by the mating habits of Britain’s young. Is this what it takes to find love nowadays? Well, buy me a cat and a lifetime prescription for animal allergy tablets, because spinsterhood looms large and I never saw a stereotype I couldn’t smash. The question is: will no one think of the lazy-in-love?

It’s a question I have been asking more and more recently, for whatever reason. There’s been a glut of long form essays on relationships: deep ruminations on whether love is supposed to fade, or if we are killing romance, or if dating is not a recipe for love but the fleeting joy of “hook-up culture” (these articles always have something made up and buzzy in them). Did our parents and grandparents worry like this? Is love really this complex? Comedian and actor Aziz Ansari gave an insightful interview to the AV Club last week, in which he talks about modern love in relation to modern manners and technology and laments the tyranny of choice. One bit stood out for me: 

I read this one guy’s texts where he texted a girl once and then texted again an hour later, after she didn’t respond. There were audible gasps in the audience when I read that.

Communication was a big thing in The Year of Making Love . There were men who said they would call and never did. Women who sent text messages that went unanswered. One memorable standing up; her to camera at the last minute: “I don’t think I can put myself through it.” Him to camera, outside the restaurant: “I’m not hurt, [I’m] pissed.”Many iterations of the sentiment behind the statement: “I don’t know if he/she is really into me”. People who promised themselves (again, on camera) they weren’t going to do something and then doing exactly that. So many feelings! All on display for our viewing pleasure. It was excruciating to watch: have you ever really watched two people kiss? What a ridiculous idea it is. It’s the most awkward thing in the entire world, and never more so than when practiced by young, sometimes lightly intoxicated people who barely know one another. Falling in love is hard – who knew? 

By the end of episode one, Natalie had “shared a bed” with Rogan again, and hadn’t heard back. “That gives me all the answers I need, really,” she told the camera. Between a shaky breath and blinking back tears, she added: “For the sake of my sanity, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to continue being involved in this.” Meanwhile Will and Kay, the first couple to be matched on the day, were also the first couple to drop out (the tyranny of choice strikes again – I had been right to judge him harshly!). Beyond all the flirting, and the bravado, and the snappy dialogue, when things fell apart, they all looked so young. They all looked so broken. And so I remembered the untouchable Annie Hall: relationships are “totally irrational and crazy and absurd. But uh, I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs.”

Marching off into the sunset. Photograph: Getty Images

Bim Adewunmi writes about race, feminism and popular culture. Her blog is  yorubagirldancing.com and you can find her on Twitter as @bimadew.

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How Paul Giamatti changed the fate of Pinot Noir

The actor's prickly character in Sideways - a film about wine buffs - made us appreciate this tricky grape.

When Paul Giamatti, playing Miles in the 2004 film Sideways, started waxing lyrical about Pinot Noir, he changed his own fate and, surprisingly, that of the grape. It is hard to know which was more unlikely: the sexual interest of the beautiful, wine-loving Maya (Virginia Madsen) in this thin-skinned, temperamental loser, or the world’s heightened interest in this thin-skinned, temperamental grape.

“Only somebody who really takes the time to understand Pinot’s potential can then coax it into its fullest expression,” Miles growled and, kapow: those patient winemakers suddenly found a bunch of film buffs queuing for their wine. Perhaps it was the character’s description of its flavours as “just the most haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle . . . on the planet”. Perhaps it was the power of celebrity approval.

In fact, the correlation between finicky Miles and finicky Pinot is even closer than the script claims. Miles in California wine country doesn’t behave exactly like Miles back home in San Diego, and that is true of Pinot Noir, too. Everybody marvels at the tiny difference between one Burgundy vineyard and the next: how Pommard’s red wines have such power while those of Volnay next door have more elegance; how a wine such as Armand Rousseau’s Premier Cru Clos St Jacques – so good as to be almost indescribable – can differ in quality from surrounding Gevrey-Chambertins, which aren’t exactly shoddy either.

Perhaps the Sideways audience understood that no two of us are alike. Miles was talking about vulnerability, and the need to feel unique and uniquely cared for. No wonder Maya melted.

Given its variability and responsiveness, the best way to explore Pinot is to try several. So, I lined up bottles and drinkers from three continents and took a world tour without leaving the dinner table.

It seemed unfair to include a great Burgundy name, so I began with David Moreau’s Maranges 2014 from the southernmost part of the Côte d’Or. It had clean, redcurranty flavours but felt too young – trying to taste the terroir was like asking a lost toddler for their address. Still, when we moved on to a purplish Pinot from Bulgaria, a country still suffering the loss of the vast and uncritical Soviet market, the Maranges improved by comparison. We fled to America, where Oregon Pinots, particularly from the Willamette Valley, are much praised and steeply priced. Lemelson Vineyards’ “Thea’s Selection” 2013 was rich but lacked depth; I preferred the wild berries and marzipan of Elizabeth’s Reserve 2012 from Adelsheim Vineyard.

The difference between the two, just six miles apart, was their most interesting aspect, so we assembled another pair of neighbours: Ocean Eight 2012 and Paringa Estate 2013, both from Australia’s Mornington Peninsula, separated by a year and four zigzagging miles.

These are beautiful wines, the former full of blackberry, the latter spectacular, perfectly structured and with a scent to dab behind your ears. And here is the paradox of Pinot, which tastes of where it’s grown but is grown everywhere that stubborn individuals can persuade it to fruit.

The Mornington Peninsula is planted with Pinot because its patient winemakers claim their climate is similar to Burgundy’s – which would be hilarious if it weren’t, like Miles’s grandstanding, rather plaintive. This is a spit of land with water on three sides, ten thousand miles from France, as much like the landlocked Côte d’Or as I am like Virginia Madsen, which is to say that there are basic structural similarities but you’ll never mistake one for the other.

Ambition and imagination are qualities we don’t share with the vine – but plant those attributes in the right soil and the results can be delicious.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 24 February 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The world after Brexit