The Get Down, Part 2:
The HipHop Saga Continues...Until Netflix Cancels It

Release Date: April 7th, 2017
Number of Episodes: 5 (from 50-75 minutes long)
Created by: Baz Luhrmann & Stephen Adly Guirgis
Starring: Justice Smith, Shameik Moore, Herizen Guardiola, Jaden Smith, Skylan Brooks, T.J. Brown Jr., Jimmy Smits, Stefanée Martin, Shyrley Rodriguez, Mamoudou Athie, Giancarlo Esposito, Lillias White, Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, Kevin Corrigan, Eric Bogosian, Nas (vocals only)

One of the most exciting web series in recent circulation, The Get Down is a stylized telling of HipHop's origin story. Set in a mythical version of late-1970s New York City, the tale centers on a group of South Bronx teenagers pursuing their creative dreams while simultaneously contending with poverty, racism, sexism, and oppressive power players seeking to exploit them for their own various aims.

Part 1 consists of 6 episodes released on Netflix in August 2016, and the 5-episode Part 2 came out in April 2017. Then, just a few weeks after the inconclusive Part 2 aired, it was announced that The Get Down had been cancelled, and there will be no more. This is a real shame, because it's a groundbreaking work in numerous ways. Why create such a great series only to abandon its production midway through? Before I get into the number of factors that likely contributed to The Get Down's demise, I'll start with my Part 2 review:

This second chapter retains some familiar flourishes and nifty production elements from Part 1, such as each episode's title appearing in graffiti text on a subway train rolling by, real New York City 1970s newscast footage inserted between scenes, and interludes of a grown Mr. Books rap-narrating (vocals by Nas) flashbacks in a 1996 concert. This time he's looking back to just over a year after the events of Part 1—which took place in summer 1977—now set in fall 1978. Protagonist Zeke Figuero (Justice Smith) is still interning at the Manhattan business office, working on college admissions essays through which he reflects on the duality of his life.

What's new are short animated sequences interspersed throughout the narrative. Styled as an old school cartoon, the animation is reflective of comic book artist Ed Piskor's Hip Hop Family Tree, a comprehensive series of graphic novels about HipHop's early days that was used as a guide during the show's production. The animated sequences are outtakes from the graffiti artist character Dizzee's (Jaden Smith) continuing comic book series "The Adventures of The Get Down Brothers", adding yet another layer to this multifaceted universe; a TV show using music and art to tell a story about music and art—displaying the postmodern, self-referential aspect of HipHop. In this respect the animation is a cool ingredient. But since the style of the show is cartoonish anyway, the animation is perhaps ultimately redundant as yet another form of narration in addition to the already-established rap-narration.

There's a little less of the myth-making, urban folklore feel than Part 1; gone are the innercity misadventures in search of bootleg tapes, rare records, and new graffiti pieces. Part 2 instead looks deeper into the record biz, the drug scene, and municipal politics, illustrating how these worlds overlap and are linked through contradiction; inhabited by unethical superpowers who sometimes display virtue as well as virtuous marginalized characters forced into ethically questionable behaviour. Conflicts within the music industry surface as all involved try to manipulate circumstances for their own personal ends—usually foremost to the detriment of the artists. Romanticized story elements are peeled back to reveal more grit and less glamour. There are drug overdoses. Arrests. Deaths. Suicide. Homicide. It all makes for a darker segment than Part 1 as our young heroes continue to be exposed to tragic, real-world experiences the more they emerge into it.

Shaolin Fantastic's (Shameik Moore) depiction as a hood legend is toned down, as he's now a respected DJ with less of the mysterious air than he had at the series' outset. He's not simply the ghetto superhero he was initially portrayed as, but in fact an orphan who crime queenpin Fat Annie (Lillias White) raised, abused, and exploited—as both her petty crime lackey, and sexually. Through Annie, Shao gets an opportunity to run his own nightclub. It's the perfect chance for a regular DJ outfit for him and The Get Down Brothers, and they soon grow their name and fanbase. Mylene (Herizen F. Guardiola) and The Soul Madonnas have likewise advanced as rising stars in the music business, with their second hit disco song release. As in Part 1, the musical performances (rapped and sung by the impressive young actors themselves) are outstanding in their own right but resonate even more potently because we see what's at stake for the performers, how so much hinges on every show.

Mylene faces excruciating sexism in the music industry. Some of the record biz people, in their treatment of still-in-high-school, 17-year-old Mylene and her girlfriends seems not dissimilar to how pimps and johns might treat prostitutes. Except that pimps are perhaps more honest about their misogyny. Mylene's abusive father Ramon (Giancarlo Esposito), her uncle Papa Fuerte (Jimmy Smits), her manager, and the record company executives all try to control her every move, making decisions concerning her career without even consulting her. A strong sense of sympathy is evoked for Mylene, a mere teenager stuck in the middle of a bunch of grown men who want to exploit her talent, youth, and sex appeal for their own profit.

The Kipling boys' parents are also unsupportive, considering The Get Down (HipHop before it became known as such) to be "noise" and "a waste of time". Likewise Zeke's aunt and uncle don't understand his love for music, and equate him doing late night shows to him selling drugs, which he's not. This all presents another challenge in the teens' quest for greater creative success; not only do they continually struggle with poverty, racism, sexism, and homophobia, but also with restricted freedom based on their age—a lot of grown-ups "forbidding" the kids to do the things they most want to do. The same was true of rock and roll in its early years, and of youth-driven movements in general; those with more power—adults, men, whites, the wealthy—seek to hold on to the old ways, to control the evolution of the youth which in fact only fuels their rebellion. As the teen protagonists seek greater autonomy that is denied them by those who wield more power, friction develops and they begin to turn on each other. Tensions come to a head, and the question arises if Zeke can stay true to his creative vision even as his domestic and professional teams crumble.

Shao attempts to sabotage Zeke's internship/college prospects, viewing the pursuit of a degree and corporate job as selling out their musical aspirations in order to make it in The White Man's world. Zeke's boss Herbert Gunns conversely views Zeke's commitment to his friends and art as wasting his opportunity in the capitalist world—the same world that created and maintains oppression of Zeke and his community. The situation threatens Papa Fuerte's housing deal with Gunns and Mayor Ed Koch, too. They're all powerful figures attempting to use Zeke as a pawn in their game, challenging his loyalty and integrity once again. But Zeke knows that The Get Down is pure—for and by him and his people, on their terms; especially in these early days before HipHop became a major commodity in the corporate record industry. Now nearly fifty years in existence, HipHop is a viable means of making a living—although many artists still struggle with issues of success, selling out versus "keeping it real", and what that really means.

The theme of contradiction, so brilliantly orchestrated in Part 1, continues to be explored in equally interesting ways in Part 2. As the layers of contradiction intensify, it's shown that some of the slick showbiz agents, politicians, and gangsters are fundamentally still human, beholden to and shaped by the pressures of their respective worlds. When given a chance, even they can show insight and compassion. Vice versa our heroes show more flaws, especially Shao who is a natural leader, but troubled.

A major problem arises when The Get Down Brothers are effectively blackmailed into making a record, but with a band instead of Shao as DJ. The copyright legalities of recording songs comprised solely of samples from other records presented new and unknown complications in the industry at the time. Sampling, songwriting ownership, accreditation, etc., would indeed be the focus of many court cases in the years following The Get Down's 1970s time setting—in the recorded music industry in general, and especially in HipHop. It's a compelling dilemma for Shao and crew; they seek wider exposure that only making a record will get them, yet they can't make one from samples. But they're being forced to do it with a band instead of the DJ—Shao—which would mean selling out the very foundation of The Get Down itself.

The Get Down Brothers determine to solve this predicament by uniting the Bronx's "Three Kingdoms"—the three Bronx neighbourhoods each repping their own brand of The Get Down—led by DJs Kool Herc, Grandmaster Flash, and Afrika Bambaataa. What ensues is a fascinating rally call by The Get Down Brothers to the Three Kingdoms as we see how passionately they all resist attempts to record and sell what they regard as a free, live music art form. They shun commercial aspirations, considering commodification of their art to be blasphemy. Episode 5 of Part 2—the last in the series—is riveting as it examines HipHop pioneers struggling with how to protect the culture from being corrupted beyond its humble, underground, folk music roots. The final frame is a caption stating "9 months later 'Rapper's Delight' the first global hiphop record was released. It was recorded with a band". The implication is that these were indeed the last days of The Get Down in its raw form, before its mass commercialization.

There are many well-executed dramatic and musical sequences in Part 2, but it still doesn't have the scene I've been waiting for: Zeke and Mylene—The Get Down Brothers and The Soul Madonnas—performing onstage together. And while captivating throughout, by Episode 4 a few details seem hurried and contrived to push the drama forward: Pastor Ramon too easily makes his way past security into RubyCon's nightclub when Mylene performs there, and Zeke suddenly loses her in the crowd that same night. These details, while perhaps relatively minor in the scope of things, are nonetheless not believable and make for the occasional unsound moment. But overall, it's an outstanding show.

And now it's all over. The Get Down got done. A troubled production, confusing promotion platform, high costs, and other factors led to the cancellation. Apparently The Get Down ranks among the most expensive television serials ever made, at approximately $120 million for the 11 episodes produced. That is a lot, too much even for a juggernaut like Netflix, I guess. Unless the show was a runaway hit, which evidently it wasn't. It got nothing but good reviews from critics and Netflix raters alike, but in the end I suppose just not enough people saw it.

The muddled marketing began when production delays resulted in the first season being split into two parts. It was problematically promoted as Part 1 of Season 1 and Part 2 of Season 1, with an overlong 8-month wait in between. Part 2 feels like the second act of a three-act story, in which problems are escalated and left unresolved. But the narrative arc feels close to being properly concluded; another few episodes comprising a Part 3 could've done it, making the whole saga be a trilogy, a limited series of a total of 15-18 episodes or so. And since they apparently already had the story and some preliminary work done for the next season, they could've wrapped it all up to stand on its own as a brilliant, complete work. Alas, The Get Down ultimately fell victim to its production complications and uncertain release schedule. Viewers were confused with the "Part 1" billing and didn't know how long they'd have to wait for more episodes. Obviously Netflix didn't foresee the production challenges and so didn't promote The Get Down accordingly, but whatever the reasons it's an untimely, unwelcome cancellation.

The Get Down's co-creator and showrunner Baz Luhrmann was a filmmaker before he ever attempted a TV series, and while I initially had doubts about him in command, I soon concluded that The Get Down is his best work to date. But after the release of Part 2, Luhrmann told Netflix that he was dialing down his commitment to the show to return to making feature films. This is probably another reason Netflix decided to cancel. So, perhaps Luhrmann wasn't the best choice to helm this project after all, having developed it for years only to abandon it before completion. It's frustrating that it turned out so good and then leaves us hanging. But what Netflix and Luhrmann did create is something so precious that they ultimately still deserve credit, and even something incomplete is better than nothing at all.

While messy in some ways, in many respects The Get Down is unlike any other television show or movie—a creative homage to HipHop's multifaceted origin story. It honours historically true, real-life details and characters while elevating them to mythical proportions through an enthusiastically stylized lens. It's a drama, a romance, a cartoon, a musical. It's about art, politics, culture, people. It's entertaining and engaging in ways both emotional and intellectual, a riveting tale that outlines the relationships of people navigating the obstacles of contradictory, intersecting worlds. Maybe The Get Down is too gritty for the mainstream crowd, and too theatrical for the hardcore crowd. Maybe it's too ambitious or ahead of its time. But it certainly stands out as high-quality, original storytelling—whatever else it is.
• Nik Dobrinsky / Boy Drinks Ink
May 6th, 2017