How the Tinder Swindler Exposed the Scam of Romanticism

Guys, be honest with me here. Is my longing for that fleeting across-the-bar-look, the subtle smile lingering in the corner of the lips, the endearingly awkward tension, and that eventual surrender to approach THAT hopelessly outdated? Have we, as a society, transcended not just the need, but the desire for meeting potential love interests in person? Don’t get me wrong, I am aware this modus vivendi still exists, but with everyone and their mother on Hinge, Bumble, Tinder, Thursday, and their quirkier competitors (during my research I’ve discovered there are AT LEAST FOUR dating apps that match people based on their music taste: How? Why? Why do we need so many?), I think it stopped being the status quo. 

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 Anyone who has ever had a deep chat with me knows I often lament the loss of the in-person element to initiating. I was talking to a guy friend recently and (to no one’s surprise) delivered an impassioned monologue on how people just don’t approach each other anymore, how scared we are of public rejection, how our romantic lives are at the mercy of the algorithm. He patiently listened to my rant and calmly responded, “Ana, I am a repressed British male. How do you expect me to chat up girls at bars?” I laughed because it was sweet and honest and true. I am not a repressed British male, but it’s not like I practice what I preach – rejection IS scary. And then he said something, which stayed on my mind for a couple of weeks. “You’re over-romanticizing this”, he suggested, “and that can really backfire.”   

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I kept thinking about romanticism, and with this contemplation as the backdrop, proceeded to delete all my apps for the foreseeable. And then I watched Tinder Swindler, which both reinforced my decision and added more content for my internal philosophizing. And just now I’ve realised it’s Valentine’s day next week. All in all, love, loneliness, and financial fraud are in the air, and I am ready to get my thoughts out on paper. 

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I was initially reluctant to commit to a two-hour long documentary about a Tinder relationship gone wrong. Fifteen minutes in, however, I was hooked. Thirty minutes in, I was on the edge of my seat.  An hour in, I could not stop screaming “No, what the actual fuck?” at the screen every couple of minutes. For those who haven’t seen the documentary, The Tinder Swindler exposes the scam of an Israeli fraudster, Simon Leviev. Masquerading as a billionaire, Leviev seduced women into long-term relationships to secure a sense of trust that he would later take advantage of to gain fast loans and credit. It is alleged he swindled over 7 million pounds from his numerous victims. 

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As expected, the internet mob had some harsh words for the women involved with Simon Leviev. They were accused of being gold-diggers, falling in love with Leviev’s money and the lavish lifestyle. It is undeniable that their decisions were naïve and unsound, but victim blaming is never cool. I’d like to say that if a stranger expressed a wish to fly me out and paid for my plane ticket after the first date, alarm bells would be going off in my naturally cautious and distrusting head, but it’s easy to judge with the luxury of emotional distance. We would like to think that we would be smarter if we were to ever find ourselves in that position, but I wouldn’t be so sure. We are quite fallible creatures.

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Blaming the women is both unfair and misdirected. In my eyes, there are two main culprits here. The first is the man himself, Simon Leviev. He spun a frightening web of lies for his own selfish gain, shamelessly manipulated those who trusted him, and aggressively threatened the women when things didn’t go his way. There is absolutely no justification for what he has done, and (SPOILER ALERT!) the lack of consequences for his disgusting actions left me absolute seething as the credits rolled. But there have been numerous articles written already on the toolkit of conmen - the love-bombing, the gaslighting, the mixed signals; I doubt I would be able to bring something new or valuable to the table. I want to take a closer look at the second culprit - the much more evasive, yet still problematic one. It’s the philosophy of romanticism and its persistent influence on our expectations and standards when it comes to relationships. 

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The cannons of romanticism will be familiar to most; after all, they underpin the cultural narrative we are spoon-fed from childhood. We have one person who we are destined for. They will be perfect. Their gaze will heal us, make us whole. Our love will be effortless, unconditional, so much so that we will question how we have ever lived in its absence. Acceptance will be complete and total, and all our energy should be channeled into making the other person happy. Practical considerations are taboo; we must be guided by our feelings, and feelings only. 

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Alain de Botton writes at length about how romanticism erodes the ability to have healthy and fulfilling relationships because it is simply unrealistic. He very rightfully points out that we are all absolutely insane. We are deeply flawed, we lack self-awareness, and we tend to project insecurities onto other people. No average (read: insane) person is equipped with enough intuition to understand another comparably average (read: comparably insane) person without communication – the very thing romanticism tells us is not just irrelevant, but incompatible with genuine love. 

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None of us are immune to romanticism’s influence. We are the product of our environment, and the romantic desire for “the one” is deeply ingrained in us, whether we recognize it or not. In the opening scene, Cecilie swoons and fantasizes about “the feeling of a prince coming to save you” and the search for “that all-consuming, the kind of…what you have grown up with kind of love.” These women were victims of Leviev as much as they were victims of romanticism, which taught them that losing your head is liberating, that immediate intensity is a sign of undeniable connection, that love must be feverish to be true. I don’t think these women were after Simon’s money; the gold-digging accusations ring hollow to me. I think they were swept by the fairytale romance, the sense of being chosen, the extravagant attention, the us-against-the-world mentality. It’s hard not to develop the so-called Prince Charming syndrome when all our culture references guide us to revere dizzying romance devoid of any practical considerations. 

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This may be a hard pill to swallow, but it must be said. The Prince Charming of romantic promises does not exist. He cannot rescue you, because he is just as flawed as you. He will come with a chipped sword and tired eyes, weighty epaulettes of responsibility fastened to his shoulders. Against his better judgement, he will say hurtful things out of fear or insecurity or anger. He will be moody when under-slept and won’t always know the perfect thing to say. And he, this half prince, half pauper, will meet you, the ragged princess, your angelic voice turned hoarse from the endless negotiation for your place in the world and your feet, swollen from carrying the heaviness of being, not fitting into the glass slipper. You too will be a handful, not at all like in the movies. 

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Humans are ridiculously complicated, which is why it baffles me when people declare “I am only going to get into a relationship if it’s going to be super easy.” What are you talking about? Relationships are the antithesis of easy. Relationships, serious and long-term ones anyway, are hard work, requiring you to choose your partner every day, over and over again, even on their worst days, and trust that they will do the same for you. To truly be vulnerable with someone demands an immense level of compassion, patience, kindness, and courage. Contrary to what romanticism told us, love requires work, pragmaticism, and maintenance.

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Sometimes Prince Charming is tired and unpleasant, and his princess is stressed and inattentive. They choose to talk about it. 

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Nevertheless, there is a balance to be struck here. Love cannot, and should not, be clinically cold and calculated. After all, how magical is it that despite our apparent insanity we are able to find refuge in each other, that our glaring flaws can become a source of inspiration, a catalyst for change, a motivation for refinement in someone else’s hands? It’s not about purging romanticism altogether; it’s about making it more realistic and learning to expect the complicated. It’s about working through the complicated. It’s about finding beauty and fulfilment in the complicated.

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I do think it’s necessary to romanticize aspects of love; true rationality knows when to step back slightly, when to blend into the background to give space for the mystifying to blossom. And it’s okay to give in, to take chance, to roll the dice. We have a saying in Russian, “if you don’t take risks, you don’t drink champagne.” And I drink champagne. Preferably in dimly lit bars, while smiling at strangers across the bar.