Danny Boyle's Ink lands on Netflix with Guy Pearce as Murdoch — the villain of the piece is the editor he hired
Danny Boyle’s Ink tackles The Sun’s rise, with Jack O’Connell’s Larry Lamb crackling through a scathing tabloid drama — but how far does it really go?
Right, here we go—Ink has turned up on Netflix, directed by Danny Boyle (he of Trainspotting and Slumdog Millionaire fame), and it’s got a real whiff of scandal, Fleet Street, and vintage tabloid chaos about it. If you've ever wondered just how the British press went from stuffy gentlemen's clubs to the gutter (and then kept digging), this one’s practically a case study—sharp, brisk, and just a little bit shameless.
We’re set in 1969, when newspapers were still thick with ink and even thicker with class snobbery. Larry Lamb (played with proper northern charm by Jack O’Connell), a working-class editor from the North, gets pinched by Rupert Murdoch (that’s Guy Pearce, slightly more sympathetic than you might expect), and is dropped into the hot seat at The Sun. Murdoch was himself an outsider and far from the media overlord we all know now. Together, they more or less invent the tabloid as we know it—by utterly binning any sense of taste if it meant higher sales.
Ink is one of Netflix’s big awards titles this fall, and they would be wise to push O’Connell in the Best Actor category.
Punk Sensibilities, Gutter Ethics
The first half comes out swinging—Boyle’s opened up James Graham’s stage play so completely you won’t even spot the theatre seams, and the pacing just cracks along. The tabloids start off with a bit of punk rebelliousness—think anachronistic music drops, a slap in the face to Fleet Street tradition. It’s not all bleak, either. O’Connell’s Lamb isn’t just a moustache-twirler; you see his drive comes partly from being snubbed by stuffy elites. Murdoch, meanwhile, is less cartoon villain and more man with a point to prove.
- Jack O’Connell really shines as Lamb—a slippery, persuasive operator building a squad of outcasts to conquer the newsstands.
- There’s a key character, Jules Davies (Claire Foy), Lamb’s mistress and his closest confidante, who’s been made up for the film as a sort of composite—less biopic, more morality play.
- Pearce’s Murdoch comes off (at least at first) slightly more civilised, more aware of what’s actually over the line than Lamb, who frankly doesn’t seem to care once the numbers start rolling in.
Of course, it’s not all lightning pace and seedy fun. The second half winds down a bit, getting serious after a kidnapping plot throws up a dilemma about what these men—and these papers—are willing to do for dominance. It gets a tad heavy, but O’Connell holds the centre beautifully, and there's never much risk of you zoning out.
Now, for the truly modern bit—it’s impossible to watch Ink without thinking about the way tabloid tactics are now embedded in everything: social algorithms, doomscrolling, moral panic headlines. The film points out that, if Lamb didn’t exactly invent grubby journalism, he’s the one who turned it into an Olympic sport—by daring to be vulgar, he changed the industry forever.
Not everything lands, mind you—a couple of AI shots are so obvious you can practically hear them whirring, which feels a touch hypocritical for a film all about journalistic integrity. Still, the energy, the performances, and Boyle’s old-school flash keep it properly entertaining. If nothing else, O’Connell’s turn is more than enough reason to watch.