Almeida, London
8th July, 2017, matinee
James Graham’s play charts media
mogul Rupert Murdoch’s poaching of Larry Lamb to be editor of his newspaper,
and then Lamb’s stopping at nothing to beat The
Mirror sales figures in a hugely enjoyable, raucously funny, visually
gratifying production from Rupert Goold. Whether it offers pithy entertainment
for the masses or is a huge political mouthpiece, The Sun has had a seismic cultural impact on Britain (and arguably
still has even if that has diminished in recent years). Graham explores this as
well as a cultural class shift and the birth of an era of selfish
individualism.
I grew up in a household that
probably bought The Sun newspaper
nearly every day. I wasn’t that old when I realised I didn’t share my family’s
fondness for it. There’s a bit in Ink
when we are told the paper’s manifesto: how it is to shine light into the dark
corners of the government, the establishment, and – if necessary and what the
people want to read about – the public. Their maxim is to satiate the public by
punching up, never down. But Graham points up the hypocrisy that the
voice-of-the-people tone is a newspaper version of David Cameron saying ‘Call
me Dave’. Though the newspaper may be mere fish and chip paper a few days after
publication, Ink shows the pressure
on journalists to deliver, the commotion of the newsroom, and the sheer physical
labour that goes into the printing presses. But as one character says, in
feeding the public more of what they want, they’re going to want more. I saw
the third official performance of Richard Bean’s Great Britain when there was still a lot of hype around it. As
entertaining as it was and as broad in scope and humour as this play, it was
clearly didactic and felt painted in big brush strokes as so to facilitate an
immediate staging. Ink, however,
feels timeless and yet still nods to contemporary issues regarding tabloids’
questionable methods to get a scoop. This is thrillingly staged in the second
act’s focus on the real-life kidnapping of a journalist’s wife. We see the
original testing of an editorial team’s ethics, asking themselves how far is it
right to push the story for the sake of sales figures.
As with This House and The Vote, and
no less so with Ink, Graham is clever
at dramatising the technicalities and intricate workings of business, politics
and industry. We see the thought process behind the changes The Sun made to go from stuffy
broadsheet to what it’s more like now: the layout of its front page, the font
used, and its eye-catching flashiness. There are some hilarious lines which I
don’t want to spoil here about the reluctance for some of this cultural shift. There’s
also an entertaining segue (one of many which still make the play feel robust
as it does expansive) about the manual labour and sacred ritual of the printing
presses.
Bunny Christie’s set and Neil
Austin’s lighting design captures the play in sepia tone, creating the murky
world of Fleet Street, from the editorial hub to the basement printing presses.
Towers and archways of desks, gliding ladders and projections of front pages merge
with a pub to leave the impression of a seedy, male-dominated industry, where
the atmosphere is more that of a knees-up than a workplace. It is an aesthetic
which makes the point that the newspaper industry is as British as the coal and
steel industries, and pubs. It seems ungenerous to say that it often feels like
a riff on This House, but the styles
of the two do overlap. This is not to undermine what Goold achieves. His
production, with thanks to Adam Cork’s sound and Lynne Page’s choreography, is
never stagnant. The buzzing movement and (seedy) glamour of the 60s’ newsroom
is stylishly evoked: we go from restaurants to saunas, and lines from sales
charts come to life that map their war with The
Mirror.
Bertie Carvel plays Rupert Murdoch with
a surprising dose of humanity. His clipped Australian accent suggests class
issues; his theatrical hand gestures and tendency to talk in binaries suggests
a fondness for the sensational; his slightly twisted arm, hunched shoulders and
occasional twitch in his left hand’s fingers suggest a brooding Shakespearean
despot. Richard Coyle also leads the cast and controls the arc of the play
masterfully as editor Larry Lamb. Other than them, Graham peoples Ink with bold characters coming together
from different newspapers to work on the rebirthed The Sun, and a memorable cast of walk-on parts. Jack Holden (saw
earlier this year in What the Butler Saw)
stands out as Beverley, the hapless mortician photographer turned first Page 3 snapper.
He also does an impressive turn as actor Christopher Timothy, the original fast
paced, whacky TV advert voiceover. I’m glad Goold has cast Sophie Stanton again,
playing the bolshie Joyce Hopkirk, who knows what women want to read, shocking
the office by revealing that women masturbate and losing herself in a monologue
about how much she loves TV.
For the most part, I want to rave
about both play and production but it comes with a hesitation. I haven’t read
the playtext but I’m inferring from the projection ‘Page 3’ in the play’s
second half that this end part of the play focusing on the first page 3 girl is
Ink’s short third act. Although an
important part of the play and The Sun’s
history I’m in two minds about it. The model (Pearl Chanda) delivers a speech
to Lamb asking him if he would want his daughter reading or modelling for Page
3. On one hand, in a play filled with brazen, testosterone-fuelled language, it
seems apt to have her speech so to the point. On the other, it feels tacked on
and a rushed compromise for the lack of female voices in the play’s most part.
Ink plays at
the Almeida Theatre until 5th August. It then transfers to the Duke
of York’s Theatre from September.
Of a lively audience, a moment that
stood out: At one point, Lamb riffs on how he likes Ray Charles, noise and
popular culture. A joyous ‘Yeah!’ came from a middle aged man behind me, as if
he was punching the air.
 |
| The cast of Ink at the Almeida. Photo: Marc Brenner |
