Review: In ‘Ink,’ a Mephistopheles Named Murdoch Takes Charge

Did you hear the one about the guy who sells his soul to the devil? How about the story in which an entire country does the same thing? These cautionary tales intersect to highly invigorating effect in James Graham’s “Ink,” which opened on Wednesday night at the Samuel J. Friedman Theater. And don’t worry, uneasy Americans, it’s not about you.
Except that it is. Directed with vaudevillian flair and firecracker snap by Rupert Goold, “Ink” is set in London, in the gory glory days of a quaint phenomenon: print journalism.