In a case of life imitating Succession, bitter family infighting plagues the houses of Murdoch, Pratt and Rinehart. But are the sufferings of the super-rich intriguing because of schadenfreude, or for what say about ourselves?
What could better illustrate a famous family divided than a convoy of its children arriving in separate black SUVs, then mounting the steps of a Nevada courthouse. The Silver State’s court system is fabulously discreet, thus the perfectly private setting for three of Rupert Murdoch’s children—Elisabeth, James and Prudence—to wage war on their father and his bid to change the family trust in favour of his eldest son, Lachlan.
Rupert Murdoch’s retirement last year cemented Lachlan, executive chairman of Fox and chair of News Corp, as his chosen successor. He’s never denied his children would compete for that crown. When asked if son Lachlan was his “natural heir apparent” in 1995, he responded, “Well I’ve got another son, and a daughter” (forgetting, presumably, in that moment his eldest child Prudence from his first marriage). In 1997, Murdoch told a journalist that his three children had agreed his successor would be Lachlan, the “first among equals”. (Again he’d overlooked Prudence, who later said she received a huge apology and the biggest bouquet she’d seen. According to Vanity Fair, Prudence is the only sibling “not directly competing for his business affections”, yet Murdoch’s oldest child still rolled up to Reno’s Second Judicial District Court in September.)
The ruthlessness and brutal pragmatism—even amorality—required to be politically powerful and inordinately rich are not qualities we’ve come to attach to being a good mum or dad. We just don’t view love as something subordinate to our financial interests. Certainly up to a hundred years ago, children of the West were regarded as smaller adults; one’s child was expected—depending on their class and circumstances—to either stay silent and elsewhere, or to labour for little pay with useful little hands. But more recent visions of good parenting include notions of warmth, encouragement and guiding the young to an uneasy mix of selfhood and citizenship (to being completely themselves and sharing their toys). Contemporary parenting ideals tend not to include pitting siblings against each other for favour or fortune, rewarding the progeny most like yourself, or battling three of your children in a probate court to protect the interests of a fourth.
Yet who does anyone appoint in old age as their executor? Surely it’s the person who seems most reliable and sensible among your offspring, the one whose values around money and legacy align most closely with your own. Why then shouldn’t the chairman emeritus of Fox Corporation and News Corp choose a successor on those same terms, just because we’re talking US$21 billion (around $31.7 billion) and the future of conservative media?
He’s not the only Australian-born billionaire battling their children. Mining magnate Gina Rinehart vehemently rejected her son and daughter’s accusations of “fraudulent and dishonest design” in a protracted legal battle. John Hancock and Bianca Rinehart claim to be the rightful owners of Hancock Prospecting’s 50 percent stake in Hope Downs mine, left to them in 1992 by its founder, their grandfather Lang Hancock, in the family trust. Gina Rinehart, worth US$30.5 billion ($46 billion) and Australia’s richest person, argues that another legal dispute over ownership of the iron ore complex prevents that transfer of wealth, but John and Bianca want the $4.8 billion now.
Then, of course, there are the Pratts. Paula Hitchcock is fighting her half-siblings—billionaire Visy boss Anthony Pratt and his sisters Heloise and Fiona—to prove that as the love child of their father, the late packaging magnate Richard Pratt, she’s legally entitled to a share of the Pratt Family Trust. Born to Richard and his long-term mistress, socialite turned horse trainer Shari-Lea Hitchcock, in 1997, Paula’s asking the NSW Supreme Court to nullify a deed of exclusion that cut off her inheritance as a child.
She was not forgotten in her father’s will when Richard Pratt died in 2009. Paula inherited the waterfront house in which she’d been raised in Watson’s Bay, a rural property on the NSW South Coast and reportedly more than $22 million in shares. “It doesn’t matter how much you have,” said the Australian Financial Review’s Patrick Durkin, trying to explain on The Fin podcast why enough is never quite so for children of billionaires. “People will always want more.” But it’s as equally human that a child—whether they’re from a long marriage or a love affair, whether they be fully grown or not even close, whether the spoils in question are the Pratts’ $24.3 billion net worth or a cabinet of porcelain ladies—sees their own standing and the love of their parent reflected in how big the portion of the pie served to them.
Of course there’s another party in these outsized, juicy family dramas. It’s us, the spectators. But our response to the decimation of a famous family can’t be reduced to schadenfreude. Why else would we find ourselves siding with this heir or that lovechild, in the way we hope for a win for this Roy or that in Succession (depending on which loathsome character is on-screen in the moment)? Intra-family squabbles are so commonplace, so petty, so ripe with lifelong resentment. It’s their naked, bloody humanness—alongside the aberration of money trouncing family bonds—that’s the stuff of art.
The short-changed illegitimate son Edmund in Shakespeare’s King Lear seethes, “Why bastard? Wherefore base?” before plotting his half-brother’s destruction. The children of an ageing warlord butcher his kingdom and each other as they grab for power in Akira Kurosawa’s Lear-inspired epic, Ran. In the Book of Genesis, Jacob cheats his older brother Esau out of his dying father’s blessing and buys his birthright for a well-timed bowl of soup.
Why, even Rupert’s second wife, Anna Murdoch, in her 1987 novel Family Business, has the main character—a newspaper proprietor whose two sons and daughter are rivals for the empire—admonish her children: “I thought you would come to trust and respect each other. I thought that responsibility would teach each of you humility. I was wrong. It taught you greed and disloyalty and hatred.”
Anna Murdoch could have asked for half of a fortune in her divorce from Rupert in 1999. Instead, as mother to Elisabeth, Lachlan and James, she insisted on the creation of the Murdoch Family Trust. It would ensure her three children and Prudence would have equal control of the empire—one vote each—while Rupert had four votes. (Grace and Chloe, his daughters with third wife Wendi Deng, would have an equal stake and no vote). Now Murdoch Sr wants to amend the “irrevocable” family trust so that Prudence, Elisabeth and James can’t dethrone Lachlan after his death. Just as Anna Murdoch feared her family would be corroded by the fortune, the 93-year-old Rupert fears his fortune will be corroded by family. He believes that after his death, the kingdom he’s built will fragment under the influence of the more politically moderate siblings. (James, for one, has expressed frustration over what he called News Corp’s “ongoing denial” of climate change.) For the ageing emperor Rupert Murdoch, only one child can be relied upon to preserve the commercial value of the empire.
The Nevada probate commissioner found that Murdoch could change the trust if he’s able to show he’s acting in good faith and for the sole benefit of his heirs. When he married his fifth wife Elena Zhukov at his Californian vineyard in June, neither James, Prudence, nor Elisabeth attended the wedding.
Illustration by James Dignan