Power Games: The Packer-Murdoch story – TV review

Hyperbole is the lifeblood of television marketing. So it was hardly surprising to see Nine billing Power Games (Sunday, 8.30pm) as an "epic" and "the television event of the year!"

But was it? Yet another chapter in the dynastic fortunes of the Packer clan – coming hard on the heels of books by Colleen Ryan and Pamela Williams, and the ABC's Paper Giants, Magazine Wars – might strike some as an overdose. But despite its shortcomings, last night's opening episode of this two-parter proved eminently watchable, largely due to Lachy Hulme’s forceful performance as Sir Frank Packer.

There is insufficient grace, let alone nobility, in this apoplectic media magnate to rank him alongside King Lear – but the self-inflicted tragedies that unfold as his empire declines are a cautionary reminder both of evolutionary survival and the ultimate fate of dinosaurs.

On this reading of events Packer was a relentless, brutal individual so obsessed with exercising his power he was unable to appreciate that the tinted lenses of his spectacles, while offering 20/20 hindsight, obscured a clear focus on the glaring realities ahead. This, coupled with ingrained conservatism and born-to-rule arrogance, prevented him from delegating responsibility to his sons, Kerry and Clyde.

Aware of the threat posed by Rupert Murdoch, emerging as a publisher in the early 1960s, Packer backed himself to win through intimidation only to repeatedly find that he had in fact backed himself into a corner against a younger, sharper and supremely deft operator. The apparent effortlessness with which Murdoch outspent, outsmarted and outmanoeuvred his rival was expedited as much by the old man’s vanity and misjudgment as Murdoch’s cool ambition.

The kaleidoscope of years leading to Sir Frank’s demise in May 1974 is turned colourfully to popular music, with vintage newsreel clips punctuating the flow of events and creating a nostalgic backdrop to the protracted struggle to control the lion’s share of Australia’s media landscape. But it is far from nostalgia. An underlying ugliness prevails as the antagonists pushed their own agendas in pursuit of influence.

There is some luscious irony in the timing of last night’s first instalment, arriving in the wake of an election campaign during which suggestions of blatant bias have been consistent.

Humanising Sir Frank’s bullying nature with dashes of sentimentality, a fondness for stray dogs and intermittent bouts of visionary acumen, however, fails to deliver a lovable rogue espousing the virtues of “tough love”.

Treating the dog better than his sons, he bludgeons his way through crises between excursions to the racetrack and the marina, maintaining a sneering disdain for underlings, unions officials and elected members of Parliament he encounters en route.

No, this is power at its rawest and ugliest, scented with testosterone: occasional whiffs of generosity overwhelmed by the aroma of whisky and cigarettes.

Hulme’s performance seems the only genuinely epic aspect of this well-mounted two-parter. While adequate, Patrick Brammall’s portrayal of Murdoch lacks Machiavellian sinew and depth. How do you write – let alone play an enigma? Ian Richardson and Andrew Davies managed it splendidly in the original House Of Cards.

Eminently felicitous and charming, Murdoch remains a closed, elusive soul. Even assessing him through the reactions of those around him fails to reveal much – apart from his achievements and capacity to hold a grudge – although events surrounding the 1969 kidnapping and murder of Mrs Muriel McKay in London hint at tectonic tensions involving generosity and pragmatism.

Perhaps crushing ironies in the closing stages of Murdoch’s career will emerge as he struggles with his own succession problems involving two less-than gruntled sons.

Despite the reality of their influence on the main players, here female characters are all but incidental to the manoeuvring of these impetuous, truculent, and ruthless entrepreneurs.

Future chapters await the attention of John Edwards and writer David Caesar as both subject families expand their gambling and media empires emphasizing in the process the nasty element of dynasty.

Power Games strives to be non-judgmental but Hulme’s portrayal of Packer makes the late and abundantly eulogized Kerry seem positively saintly. Given what he and his brother endure here, KP scrubs up agreeably. Other players to emerge relatively unscathed include Alan Reid, Mike Willesee and Adrian Deamer.

But this might be sufficient internecine bastardry for now. A change of tone would be welcome.