LOS ANGELES — When it became clear that the couple beneath the bedclothes were indeed having sexual intercourse, the West Hollywood crowd that had come to watch cheered loudly and with the exultant delight that one imagines might erupt from courtiers overseeing a royal post-nuptial bedding. Or, in a more contemporary context, from soccer fans after a final-minute, high-left-corner soccer goal.

But no. This was a “Love Island USA” watch party presented by Reality Bar at Roosterfish Tuesday night, one of hundreds of similar gatherings at bars all over the country. After living in the shadow of its wildly popular U.K. progenitor, “Love Island USA” became a hit last year with a genuinely love-filled Season 6. This year, the series has seen more scandal than romance — two contestants have been removed following outcry over their past use of racial slurs in social media posts.

But if the proliferation of watch parties is any indication, those scandals have only increased audience interest.

“I never really understood sports bars before,” my 25-year-old daughter told me. “Now I do.”

For a watch-party neophyte, it was more than a little strange to see tables full of people set aside their watermelon margaritas and mozzarella sticks to applaud the sexual consummation of strangers. But under those sheets cavorted current fan-favorite Amaya “Papaya” Espinal with her current partner Bryan Arenales, which explains the crowd’s voyeuristic joy. On “Love Island,” the couple perceived as the strongest wins the $100,000 prize (and, presumably, romantic bliss).

So the approving roar was, in part, driven by relief and hope for a team Amaya Papaya win.

It was also the sound of the latest attempt to revive the smoldering embers of the electronic hearth and save linear television.

You don’t have to love “Love Island,” with its appalling candy-colored villa in Fiji, unapologetic emphasis on “hotness” and endless dramatic pauses to appreciate the fact that in the increasingly fractured and isolated viewership experience of modern television, it is drawing people together, physically, and in real time.

The platform may be NBCUniversal‘s streaming service Peacock, but “Love Island” is returning TV to its roots.

Frankly, that’s much more startling than the sight and sound of people devouring the messy drama of competitive intercourse along with their happy-hour priced drinks and bites.

Twenty years ago, reality television was viewed by many as a threat to traditional TV. Yes, there had always been daytime game shows, but after “American Idol” and “Survivor” became prime-time hits and the Kardashians began their empire building, the reality craze spread like kudzu through broadcast and cable. Cheap to make, reality series didn’t need huge audiences to be successful. Network executives couldn’t green-light them fast enough, and for a few years, it seemed that scripted programming would become the exception, found mostly on subscription-based platforms like HBO and Showtime.

That isn’t what happened, of course. Beginning with AMC, a wide variety of cable networks began producing original scripted series, followed closely by Netflix, Prime Video and other streamers. Reality TV remained popular, but there was a new cultural phenomenon in town — the prestige dramas and comedies of what some called the new Golden Age of television. For a few glorious years, highly produced scripted series were watched, and then discussed, together and in real time. A thousand recap blogs bloomed, and whether it was “Breaking Bad” or “Downton Abbey,” all anyone talked about was television.

Alas, as is so often the case, bust followed boom. The proliferation of platforms and shows splintered the audience and ad revenues. Streaming, with its binge model and personal-device availability, made viewing increasingly less about a family or group of friends gathering around a flat-screen and more about everyone balancing their laptop on their stomachs or hunching over their phones. Since no one knew who was watching what and when, watercooler chat and even many recap blogs spluttered out.

But reality TV, quietly chugging along as the number of scripted series swelled to unsustainable proportions, has always been a spectator’s sport. Sure you can binge past seasons of “The Great British Baking Show,” but when it comes to “The Bachelor,” “Love Is Blind” or “The Traitors,” it’s much more rewarding to watch and to comment in real time.

While the rise in interest in “Love Island USA” has been attributed to the Season 6 casting that led to several genuine couples, the show has also upped its social media presence and emphasized the fact that episodes air little more than a day after they are shot, making it as close to a live viewing experience as an edited series can get.

So it’s not surprising that the crowd watching at Roosterfish would act as if they were part of a live audience — groaning when one of the men suggests that his partner is “worthy,” or shouting out opinions to Huda Mustafa when she asks if she or her partner is to blame for that day’s miscommunication (according to the women at the next table, it is definitely her).

Here is where I confess that, after watching several seasons, including 6 and 7, for the purposes of this column, I am not a fan of “Love Island USA,” and considering my aged demographic, I cannot imagine the good folks at ITV America or Peacock care at all.

I find all the blindfolded kissing troubling, the close-ups of those waiting to be voted safe or dumped gratuitously painful and the endless shots of contestant-grooming tedious. (Except when the guys are ironing — that’s my favorite part.) As a mother, I worry that between the “islanders’” sleep deprivation, complete lack of privacy and requisite emotional manipulation, whatever partnerships emerge are likely to be trauma-bonds, which is just not healthy. Mostly though, I think it’s boring — for every three minutes of “action,” the audience is expected to endure 30 minutes of analysis, mostly by people who overuse the words “queen” and “bro.” Also, I think the villa is hideous and the most fake moments are when everyone has to pretend it’s not.

But …

I did have a lot of fun at the watch party. The audience reaction, whether it was cheering or a collective cringe, amplified the drama while also making it right-sized — the show is ridiculous; that’s precisely why so many people love it.

As any theatergoer or stage actor will tell you — often ad nauseam — the audience is always part of the performance; the story is not just occurring in front of you, it’s all around you. The laughter and groans, the suspenseful silence of those watching play as big a part as whatever is happening on stage.

The same is true for television, and we are in grave danger of forgetting this. More than any other art form, television was created to be communal — to allow a large group of people to share something simultaneously.

Very few of us would give up our modern ability to watch what we want whenever we feel like it, but wholly surrendering the joys of old-fashioned, vying-for-the-best-seat, “what-did-he-say?” television is too high a price to pay for the ability to binge. The power of an audience is not limited to voting people out of the villa or determining a series’ success — it’s an energy source in itself.

Gathering with friends and family, or a group of strangers, to regularly enjoy a certain show together doesn’t just lift the spirit, it makes the show more than just something to watch.

If “Love Island USA” manages to remind us of that in a meaningful way, well, I may never like it much, but I will be a fan for life.

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(Mary McNamara is a culture columnist and critic for the Los Angeles Times.)

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