This confidently told documentary on Robert and Ghislaine Maxwell’s relationship feels like HBO drama Succession at times – but far, far grislier
‘Miaow,” says Robert Maxwell. “Miaow,” replies Ghislaine. “Miaow,” says daddy. “Miaow,” says daughter. Maxwell’s longsuffering secretary, Carol Bragoli, typing nearby, hears both sides of this conversation as Robert, being a master of the universe, always had his phone on loudspeaker so lickspittles could savour every blah. The miaowing went on for minutes and, so far as I could tell, Bragoli didn’t have a sick bucket.
It’s almost impossible not to see this vignette through the prism of Succession, with Ghislaine as a precursor of Siobhan Roy, decorous daughter with no evident business skills, swanning around as though she owns the place and yearning for daddy’s validation; while daddy, when not peeing from the top-floor office of his lamestream media business on to the peasants below, barks at jellyfish underlings in his wake.
