Let’s talk about Rupert Murdoch for a moment—not the man himself, but the cultural ghost he’s become. Here’s a man who built empires on ink and outrage, who turned tabloids into weapons of mass distraction, and yet, in Danny Boyle’s new film Ink, he’s being portrayed not as a villain but as a revolutionary. That’s fascinating, isn’t it? Because it raises a deeper question: When we look at figures like Murdoch, are we really seeing them, or are we just reflecting our own biases back at them? Boyle’s choice to humanize Murdoch, rather than vilify him, feels like a deliberate provocation. It’s as if the film is saying, ‘Yes, he changed the world—but maybe not in the way you think.’
What makes this particularly fascinating is the way Ink frames Murdoch’s rise as a rebellion against a rigid, stuffy British society. The film opens with a sense of mischief, a wink to the audience that this isn’t just another story about power—it’s a tale of chaos clashing with tradition. But here’s the thing: Murdoch’s chaos didn’t just disrupt the past; it engineered the future. His tactics at The Sun—the sensationalism, the tabloid-style reporting—became the blueprint for modern media. And yet, Boyle insists this isn’t a period piece. He argues it’s about ‘the modern world.’ That’s a bold claim, but one that rings true when you consider how today’s news cycles are still driven by outrage, clickbait, and the illusion of truth. If you take a step back and think about it, the algorithms that feed us content today are just the digital descendants of Murdoch’s print empire. They’re both built on the same principle: If it stirs emotion, it sells.
Now, let’s talk about the casting. Guy Pearce as Murdoch? It’s a stroke of genius, but not just because Pearce looks like a younger version of the man. It’s because Pearce has this uncanny ability to embody the charisma of someone who’s always one step ahead. And here’s what I find especially interesting: Murdoch himself was reportedly ‘very happy’ with the casting. That’s not just a PR move—it’s a sign that he sees himself as a cultural icon, not just a media mogul. What does that say about him? That he’s aware of his legacy, and perhaps even proud of it. But then again, who wouldn’t be? He’s the guy who turned newspapers into battlegrounds and made journalism a spectacle. In my opinion, that’s the real tragedy: He didn’t just change media—he changed how we perceive reality itself.
The film also dives into the role of women in this male-dominated world, through Claire Foy’s portrayal of Jules Davies. Foy, who’s no stranger to playing powerful women (The Crown, Women Talking), brings a sharpness to the character that’s both refreshing and quietly subversive. She’s not just a sidekick; she’s a force of nature in a system designed to sideline her. This feels like a subtle critique of how media history is often written by men, with women either erased or reduced to symbols. But here’s the catch: Foy’s character is a composite, a blend of real figures and fictional elements. That’s a clever narrative choice, but it also highlights how much of the past is already obscured by myth. What many people don’t realize is that the story of The Sun isn’t just about Murdoch—it’s about the people who enabled him, the ones who saw opportunity in chaos and didn’t question it.
And let’s not forget the elephant in the room: Ink is being released in a world where the lines between journalism and entertainment are more blurred than ever. The film’s arrival in Venice, followed by a Netflix rollout, is a telling move. It’s not just about storytelling anymore—it’s about distribution, accessibility, and, frankly, profit. Boyle’s insistence that this isn’t a period piece feels almost desperate in its urgency. Because if there’s one thing this film is doing, it’s holding up a mirror to our current media landscape. The trends it highlights—the manipulation of public opinion, the prioritization of spectacle over substance—are not relics of the past. They’re the foundation of today’s digital age. A detail that I find especially interesting is how the film’s release coincides with an era of declining trust in traditional media. Is Ink a celebration of Murdoch’s legacy, or a warning about it? That’s the question it leaves us with, and I think that’s the point.
In the end, Ink is less about Murdoch and more about the system he created. It’s a reminder that power, once unleashed, doesn’t just shape the present—it defines the future. And as we watch this film unfold, we’re forced to confront a uncomfortable truth: We’re all complicit in the chaos. Whether we’re reading the headlines or scrolling through our feeds, we’re part of the machine. The real question isn’t whether Murdoch was right or wrong—it’s whether we’ve learned anything from his reign at all.
