“People like stories,” says Rupert Murdoch — a fictional Rupert Murdoch, that is — just before the lights dim on the last scene of “Ink,” James Graham’s play about the media magnate’s early days on Fleet Street.  It’s hard to argue with that idea, particularly in the context of theater, where a story well told can often be sufficient to drive an evening’s entertainment. The question raised by the arrival of “Ink” at Manhattan Theatre Club’s Samuel J. Friedman Theatre, after an acclaimed run in London’s West End, is how many Broadway theatergoers will be engaged by the Britain-centered story,…

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