A certain cocktail had to come together to result in a show like The Get Down — a one-of-a-kind blend where a production house that is lenient with talent and liberal with cash (Netflix), meets a director known for vibrant extravagance (Baz Luhrmann, of Moulin Rogue and The Great Gatsby) and the pair set their sights on an era rife with cultural upheaval (New York City, 1977). The blend inevitably boils over, which results in a twelve-episode series that allegedly cost north of $120-million dollars to produce. It’s one of the priciest seasons of television in history, all on a premise that feels miles from the mainstream. But is it any good?

The Get Down focuses on the earliest emergence of the rap scene, deep in the South Bronx of NYC. Ezekiel is a young man with a poet’s mind, but addicted to the pride of the streets. Shaolin Fantastic (Shameik Moore) is a legend of the underground, his graffiti worshiped by Ezekiel’s crew. Mylene (Herizen F. Guardiola) is an aspiring disco singer who feels trapped by her father’s devout religious ways. Their stories are the vehicle that Luhrmann uses to traverse a moment in time, and the conflicts therein.
Luhrmann’s eye on this setting is one of hard shifts. At times, the show earns every cent of its unbelievable price tag, with excessive shots that do little but establish atmosphere. Yet often the natural constraints of TV wear on the program’s scale. Dance halls and underground parties can feel cramped for space, and inconsistency in cinematography that can be felt from shot to shot. This is exacerbated by the show’s tendency to swap between tones like a skilled DJ between records.
The Get Down aspires to capture the dynamic spirit of the ’70s while painting a larger than life reflection of it. Luhrmann uses an operatic framing narrative (the show is told as the flashbacks of an adult Ezekiel, now a bonafide rap mogul), with a tendency to fall back on tropes of musical theater.  Things often get bold for no narrative reason, like Ezekiel suddenly delivering dialogue in rhyming couplets, or Shaolin Fantastic’s action exploits being scored with the sounds of Bruce Lee.
While The Get Down doesn’t always look like a $120M production, it certainly sounds like one. The pilot episode alone contains enough disco-era hits (including a repeated usage of “Vitamin C” by Can) to trigger a sudden appreciation for the genre, while gently easing the viewer into the turntable renaissance. This pounding score is the heartbeat of The Get Down, one that never slows or falters. Shots are often cut to the beat, producing a hypnotic rhythm to the action.
At times Luhrmann’s creation can feel bloated with an excess of characters, subplots and subtexts. It’s an ambitious show, wanting to hit a huge variety of angles to this bit of musical history. Occasionally, characters can feel more like parody than the genuine article. Jimmy Smits plays a cunning community mogul, whose entire operation always feels three steps removed from everything else in the show. His performance is delightfully absurd, a scenery-chewing ham-fest that earns the polyester suit and yellow-tinted glasses.
Like much of Luhrmann’s work, it’s hard to tell how seriously The Get Down expects you to take it. At times, the messages of urban poverty and racism are bitingly emotional. Yet seconds later, it appears to crack a joke at its own expense through absurd dialogue and characterizations. Regardless, the show is undeniably worth the ride.
Follow Chris Berg on Twitter @ChrisBerg25