Stooping to Conquer

Fleet Street has not seen the likes of him since young Max Aitken (later Lord Beaverbrook) invaded Britain's newspaper scene more than half a century ago. There was, of course, the entry of a second Canadian in 1959. But Roy Thomson, at 65, was too old to provoke the image of an upstart interloper. Australian Rupert Murdoch has not only arrived at the same age as Aitken (37); he also shares--indeed, may even exceed --the Beaver's hustle.

Last January, Murdoch gained control of the 6,130,000-circulation News of the World, a lurid Sunday paper, by outmaneuvering a bigger bidder, Czech-born Robert Maxwell. The deal prompted Maxwell to remark of Murdoch: "He has caught a big fish with a very small hook." Under Murdoch's direction the fish has grown even bigger, with circulation rising despite a price increase to 80 a copy. Last October, Murdoch acquired the dull but earnest daily Sun (circ.: 950,000) for a down-payment of $120,000--considerably less than he paid for his house on London's fashionable Sussex Square. He relaunched the Sun as a tabloid in November and it now sells 1,325,000 copies a day.

Two Staples. Murdoch has raised the sales of both newspapers not by journalistic excellence or innovation but rather by stressing anew two staples of Fleet Street's so-called popular press, sex and sport. A major circulation builder for the News of the World was the serialization of Call Girl Christine Keeler's autobiography (TIME, Oct. 10). Murdoch's Sun dawned with a four-page installment of Jacqueline Susann's mechanically randy novel, The Love Machine; the main front-page story concerned a trainer drugging race horses.

On Page One of the Sun and other London papers last week was the bizarre story of the disappearance of Mrs. Alick McKay, wife of a director of the News of the World. As police sought to establish whether she had been kidnaped, they were deluged with calls from clairvoyants and cranks. One anonymous letter concluded: "I will let Mrs. McKay go if the News of the World and the Sun publikly announce that they will not corupt our kids any more by printing all that filth."

Sniffs, Chuckles. Reaction to the Murdoch mixture on Fleet Street, where the news a paper makes is sometimes more important than the news it prints, has ranged from raised eyebrows to winks. The conservative Sunday Telegraph sniffed at his stoop-to-conquer approach: "Be warned, Mr. Murdoch. The British are not all sheep, fit only for an Australian abattoir." A writer in the conservative Spectator chuckled: "All newspapers now are in for a lively time. The chips are down. You might even say the clothes are off too." The 4,925,000-circulation Daily Mirror sneered editorially at the Sun's imitativeness. In a reference to its comic-stripping blonde of the '40s and '50s, the Mirror asked: "Why not exhume Jane's great-grandmother? The old bitch would be flattered and she'd wear a miniskirt or see-through dress at the drop of a pair of knickers."

If Murdoch was offended by the Mirror snipe, it may have been only by its choice of language; he claims that he will not allow swearing in his papers. Murdoch is also fussy about appearance; he once rebuked a reporter for being overweight and an editor for wearing suede shoes. In that respect he is like his father, the late Sir Keith, an Australian news magnate who did not like his staff wearing sports jackets on weekdays.

Last week Murdoch was vacationing in Australia, where he started his career running two newspapers inherited from Sir Keith in 1952. Today Murdoch's Australian interests include 14 newspapers (only one of which, the national Australian, strives for quality), twelve magazines, nine trade journals, seven broadcasting outlets, a recording company and a travel agency. But London is his base now, and Fleet Street seems to be just his speed.

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