Ink review, Almeida

As a cub reporter in the 1980s I was asked by a Sun snapper to do a Page 3 shoot. I demurred, but not because I objected to the idea. In those heady days of sexual liberation many young women saw Page 3's fresh-faced models as a beacon of female sexuality, proof that we could bare it, flaunt it, and walk away laughing with our reputations intact. Anyway, it was hard to take seriously in the context of a rag that was outrageous, outraged, and laugh-out-loud funny. Sometimes, of course, The Sun had too little regard for decorum or decency. Then it was the paper itself that stole headlines. Ink James Graham's high octane dramatisation of the paper's first year - and what a year it was - captures all those elements.

On it's first birthday, under the direction of Larry Lamb, The Sun overtook The Daily Mirror's 4M+ daily sales. The excitement and energy that drove that success is imprinted on every scene of Ink.  Driven by Rupert Murdoch's money and maverick brilliance and Lamb's disruptive thinking, The Sun presaged Twitter, holding a mirror in which society saw itself reflected warts and all. It was also the paper that took on the unions and dragged Fleet Street into the electronic age... Inevitably the second half of Ink is darker. With the kidnap and murder of Muriel Mackay, the wife of Murdoch's Deputy, the Editor and proprietor go head-to-head. The relationship worsens when, to drive sales, Lamb introduces Page 3. The seeds of The Sun's pathology are being sown - cycles of riotous joy alongside righteous anger, regularly corrupted by independent Editors who bend the rules too far.

Directed with joy by Rupert Goold, even those who hate red-tops and their demographic will find much to enjoy in Ink. At a time when The Sun is best known for the number of laws it has broken, Ink is a salutary reminder of how it broke the fourth wall between the newspaper establishment and the reading public. Of how it thumbed its nose at tradition and chose to reflect 'the ordinary people' over their rulers. Stellar performances on Bunny Christie's evocative set include Richard Coyle as Larry Lamb, Bertie Carvel as Murdoch, David Schofield as Hugh Cudlipp and Geoffrey Freshwater as Sir Alick Mackay.

In conclusion: This blog has been quiet lately. Nothing has been good enough - or bad enough - to review. Woyzeck was numbingly dull, Killology numbingly grim. Common was cancelled the night I had tickets, and The Country Girls was charming but bitty. I have half a review of Annie, giving up because it hurt to diss Miranda Hart. So thank you Almeida, for Ink, which has reinforced an old journalist's love of red-tops, and restored her theatre mojo.


Ink at The Almeida Theatre, Almeida Street, London N1   Run ends August 5