Jack O'Connell is superb as trailblazing tabloid editor Larry Lamb, both in cahoots and at odds with Guy Pearce's Rupert Murdoch, in this tangy Venice opener, adapted from James Graham's play.
By Guy Lodge
Plus IconGuy Lodge
Film Critic
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Anthony Dickenson “People need stories,” says Larry Lamb, beleaguered editor of leading British tabloid The Sun, at a late point in “Ink,” a propulsive, can’t-look-away account of his simultaneously triumphant and regrettable career zenith. In the film, the year is 1970: His words are half a century ahead of the current prevalence of “storytelling” as a catch-all buzzword describing the jobs of everyone in media from journalists to filmmakers. Lamb gave good story, for sure; so do director Danny Boyle and writer James Graham, who have fashioned the late newsman’s aggressively populist makeover of U.K. journalistic standards into an irresistibly hooky tale of sex, murder and other very bad behavior, shot and cut with maximum flash and dazzle, set to a driving punk rhythm.
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