Danny Boyle’s latest cinematic venture doesn’t just chronicle the birth of a newspaper—it dissects the moment when British journalism lurched headfirst into the modern era of sensationalism and spectacle. Set against the backdrop of 1960s Fleet Street, “Ink” transforms the rise of The Sun from humble beginnings into a visceral exploration of power, ambition, and moral compromise.
The film, adapted by James Graham from his acclaimed stage play, centres on Rupert Murdoch’s audacious acquisition of the struggling daily title and his recruitment of Larry Lamb, a no-nonsense Yorkshire editor determined to revolutionise British tabloid culture. What unfolds is less a traditional biopic and more a fever dream of newsprint and neurosis, where Dutch angles and gargoyle close-ups serve as visual metaphors for a media landscape spinning out of control.
The Architects of Sensationalism
At the heart of Boyle’s narrative lies the complex dynamic between Murdoch and Lamb, portrayed with magnetic intensity by Guy Pearce and Jack O’Connell respectively. Where one might expect cartoon villainy, Pearce delivers a surprisingly nuanced performance—an ambitious media mogul whose fastidious nature contrasts sharply with the increasingly outrageous content his protégé proposes.
O’Connell embodies working-class aspiration with raw authenticity, his muscular presence and pugnacious energy perfectly capturing Lamb’s transformation from reporter to media revolutionary. The chemistry between the two leads crackles with tension, particularly as Lamb’s provocative ideas—such as the eventual introduction of Page 3 girls—push boundaries that even Murdoch initially hesitates to cross.
The supporting cast, including Claire Foy as a composite women’s editor figure, adds depth to what could have been a one-dimensional exploration of male-dominated media culture. Her character serves as both witness and victim to the systematic erosion of editorial integrity that would come to define modern tabloid journalism.
The Dark Heart of Celebrity Culture
Interwoven throughout this tale of media manipulation is a genuinely disturbing subplot involving the 1969 kidnapping of Muriel McKay, whose tragic death casts a long shadow over the entire enterprise. The film’s treatment of this real-life horror raises uncomfortable questions about the commodification of tragedy and the media’s role in perpetuating cycles of violence and voyeurism.
Boyle presents Lamb’s decision to run sensational stories about the kidnapping—knowing the victim wasn’t actually Murdoch’s wife—as a pivotal moment that reveals the moral vacuum at the core of tabloid culture. The scene where Lamb rejects guilt and doubles down on sensationalism feels particularly prescient, anticipating decades of media exploitation that would follow.
This story-within-a-story structure echoes Kurosawa’s “High and Low,” suggesting that the McKay kidnapping represents more than mere coincidence—it becomes a symbol of how media obsession can corrupt society’s relationship with truth and humanity. The film’s uneasy balance between dark comedy and genuine tragedy reflects the broader tension between entertainment and ethics that continues to plague contemporary journalism.
Fleet Street’s Forgotten Humanity
Perhaps the most striking aspect of Boyle’s approach is his ability to capture both the intoxicating energy and profound emptiness of 1960s tabloid culture. The film summons the frenetic pace and chaotic creativity of newspapers at their peak, while simultaneously exposing the human cost of this media revolution.
The contrast between the “officer-class” executives dining at prestigious establishments and the working journalists literally covered in ink serves as a powerful metaphor for class divisions within the industry itself. These visual contrasts—pinstripe suits versus sweat-stained foreheads, expense-account meals versus deadline pressures—paint a picture of an industry built on exploitation at every level.
For audiences familiar with the super-rich anomie depicted in shows like “Succession,” the world portrayed in “Ink” feels refreshingly unglamorous yet disturbingly relevant. The film succeeds in making visible the invisible machinery of media manipulation, showing how personal ambition and corporate interests aligned to reshape not just British journalism, but global media culture.
A Legacy Written in Headlines
As “Ink” prepares for its wider release following its Venice Film Festival screening, the film’s themes resonate with uncomfortable immediacy. The questions it raises about media responsibility, audience manipulation, and the commodification of human tragedy feel particularly pertinent in today’s era of social media echo chambers and partisan news cycles.</
The film’s unflinching portrayal of how The Sun evolved from a struggling publication into a cultural force offers valuable context for understanding contemporary media dynamics. Rather than simply condemning or celebrating this transformation, Boyle presents a complex portrait of individuals caught in larger systems of power and influence.
With strong performances across the board and Boyle’s characteristic visual dynamism, “Ink” succeeds as both historical drama and contemporary commentary. It reminds us that the media empires we take for granted today were built through deliberate choices about ethics, aesthetics, and audience manipulation—choices that continue to shape our information landscape.
Why it Matters
“Ink” matters because it forces us to confront the uncomfortable reality that today’s media landscape—with its emphasis on clicks, shares, and viral content—wasn’t inevitable, but rather the result of specific decisions made by specific people at specific moments in history. By examining the moral compromises and ethical blind spots that accompanied The Sun’s rise to prominence, the film provides essential context for understanding how we arrived at our current crisis of information trust. In an era where the lines between news, entertainment, and propaganda have become increasingly blurred, “Ink” serves as both warning and wake-up call, reminding us that the power to shape public perception comes with profound responsibility—and that the consequences of abdicating that responsibility can be measured not just in circulation figures, but in human lives.