In the sweltering haze of a Tulsa summer, where oil money mingles with forgotten histories and the air hums with unspoken grudges, a new kind of hero stumbles onto the small screen. The Lowdown, FX’s audacious eight-episode limited series that premiered on September 23, 2025, arrives like a thunderclap in a genre fatigued by glossy procedurals and superhero spectacles. Created by the visionary Sterlin Harjo—fresh off the critical darling Reservation Dogs—and anchored by Ethan Hawke’s magnetic, rumpled performance, this show isn’t just television’s latest obsession; it’s a pulse-pounding reminder that the best stories are the ones that feel dangerously alive. With a near-perfect critical acclaim hovering in the high 90s and audiences buzzing about its blend of gut-punch laughs and gut-wrenching revelations, The Lowdown proves that neo-noir doesn’t need capes or car chases to grip you—it just needs a man with a notebook, a grudge, and a penchant for trouble.

At its core, The Lowdown is the tale of Lee Raybon, a self-anointed “truthstorian” who runs a dusty bookstore in the heart of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Hawke embodies Lee with the weary charisma of a man who’s seen too much and said even more: part philosopher, part fool, all fire. Broke, divorced, and perpetually late for his daughter’s school events, Lee is the kind of everyman antihero who quotes Jim Thompson novels between sips of cheap whiskey and dodges skinhead thugs with nothing but his wits and a stolen painting. When a local real estate scion named Dale Washberg turns up dead—ruled a suicide but smelling fishier than a paddlefish poacher’s haul—Lee’s idle curiosity ignites into a one-man crusade. What starts as a tip about family secrets spirals into a labyrinth of corruption, white supremacist cabals, land grabs echoing America’s blood-soaked history, and ghosts that refuse to stay buried.

Harjo, a Seminole and Muscogee citizen whose previous work painted intimate portraits of Indigenous life on the fringes, transplants that raw authenticity to a broader canvas here. The Lowdown isn’t content with surface-level thrills; it digs into the soil of Tulsa, a city forever scarred by the 1921 Race Massacre yet pulsing with resilient, multicultural energy. Lee’s investigation peels back layers of small-town rot: powerful clans laundering influence through inflated land deals, evangelical churches masking hate groups, and ex-cons peddling caviar dreams while plotting “homelands” for the pure. But Harjo never lets the darkness overwhelm; he laces it with a shaggy-dog humor that’s equal parts absurd and aching. Picture a scene where Lee barters a pilfered artwork for a box of pulp fiction, only to end up fleeing neo-Nazis in a trunk full of cash—it’s The Big Lebowski crashing into True Detective, with a side of Fargo‘s folksy fatalism.

Hawke, who also executive produces, is the show’s beating heart, delivering a performance that’s as layered as the onion-skin pages of the novels that litter Lee’s shop. At 55, Hawke has long mastered the art of the broken intellectual—think his brooding priest in First Reformed or the haunted dad in Moon Knight—but Lee Raybon feels like a culmination. He’s a father fumbling through custody weekends, charming his tween daughter Francis with half-baked conspiracy theories one minute and disappointing her with his absences the next. Hawke’s eyes, those windows to a soul perpetually on the verge of cracking, convey Lee’s dual nature: a bumbling idealist who spins yarns to escape poachers or disarm killers, yet a man haunted by his own failures. In quieter moments, like when he pens a love letter for a estranged couple or recites poetry at Francis’s school event, Hawke reveals the poetry beneath the chaos. It’s a role that demands Hawke break your heart while making you laugh, and he does it with the effortless grace of someone who’s spent a lifetime chasing truths on screen and off.

The ensemble around him is a murderers’ row of talent, each actor elevating Harjo’s script with lived-in grit. Jeanne Tripplehorn slinks through as Betty Jo, Dale’s sharp-tongued widow whose seduction of Lee blurs lines between ally and manipulator—her barroom rendition of a Waylon Jennings tune in the finale is a masterclass in vulnerable menace. Keith David brings his signature gravitas as Marty, a private eye with a moral compass that’s as battered as his fedora; their banter crackles with the tension of two loners circling trust. Ryan Kiera Armstrong shines as Francis, Lee’s whip-smart daughter, whose eye-rolls at her dad’s antics ground the show’s wilder flights. Then there’s the parade of guest stars: Kyle MacLachlan as a oily gubernatorial candidate with skeletons in his closet, Peter Dinklage popping up as a pint-sized enforcer ready to rumble with racists, and Tracy Letts chewing scenery as a corrupt developer whose drawl drips with entitlement. Kaniehtiio Horn adds quiet fire as Lee’s ex-wife Samantha, her scenes laced with the unspoken ache of co-parenting amid crisis. Harjo populates Tulsa with characters who feel plucked from life—paroled cousins rapping about torched cars, antiques dealers hawking fakes, street artists scrawling manifestos—creating a world that’s as textured as a faded tattoo.

What sets The Lowdown apart in a sea of prestige TV is Harjo’s unapologetic love for his homeland. Shot entirely on location in Oklahoma, the series transforms Tulsa into a character unto itself: neon-lit dives pulsing with live music, sprawling lakes hiding houseboats and secrets, dusty ranches where land rushes of the past echo in modern betrayals. Cinematographers Adam Stone and Christopher Norr capture the city’s dual soul—the golden-hour glow of Route 66 nostalgia clashing with the shadowy underbelly of Indian Head Hills, where stolen acres fuel today’s power plays. The score, courtesy of roots rocker JD McPherson, weaves folk twang with ominous swells, underscoring Harjo’s themes of inheritance and erasure. This isn’t Hollywood’s Oklahoma of cowboys and twisters; it’s Harjo’s, informed by his Indigenous lens, where white saviors like Lee are exasperating bumblers, not caped crusaders. The show grapples head-on with America’s original sins—genocide, redlining, the theft of Native lands—without preaching. Instead, it asks: What does it mean to seek truth when the powerful write the history books? And can one flawed white guy, armed with stories and stubbornness, tip the scales?

The influences are worn proudly on its sleeve, a cocktail of genre nods that Harjo remixes into something fiercely original. Echoes of the Coen Brothers abound in the laconic dialogue and ironic twists—think No Country for Old Men if Anton Chigurh traded his bolt gun for a Bible-thumping militia. David Lynch’s surreal undercurrents seep in through dreamlike detours, like a senile elder’s dinosaur-tinted memories or a church sermon’s feverish fervor. Yet Harjo’s voice cuts through: his episodes build like chapters in a pulp novel, each ending on a cliffhanger that feels earned, not engineered. Humor punctuates the dread—a rap video gone viral about a burning getaway car, or Lee’s improvised jailhouse tale that disarms a gang of fish poachers. Directors like Macon Blair (I Don’t Want to Go in There at Night) and Danis Goulet (Prey) amplify this rhythm, their episodes unfolding with the deliberate pace of a stakeout interrupted by farce.

Reception has been nothing short of ecstatic, with critics hailing The Lowdown as a breath of fresh air in a stale TV landscape. One reviewer called it a “thoughtful, shambling neo-noir that’s only occasionally a shambles,” praising its literary depth and Hawke’s ability to hold together a yarn spun from shambolic quests. Another marveled at how Harjo uses mise-en-scène to craft a world that feels “very complete,” like a novel come to life—vibes so potent they’re the show’s secret weapon. Publications have lauded its highs in mere moments of screen time, outpacing entire seasons of lesser fare, and its Indigenous perspective that views the white protagonist with loving exasperation rather than adulation. Audiences echo this, drawn to the smart writing, engaging ensemble, and a storyline that reimagines southern noir without copaganda gloss. It’s charming, funny, distinctive—a show with heart and insight that dares to set genre fiction in a place as overlooked as it is essential.

In interviews, Harjo has opened up about the bittersweet finale, where Lee’s arc pivots from ego-fueled exposé to empathetic tribute, honoring a dead man’s will by redirecting stolen land to the Osage Nation. It’s a choice that underscores the series’ soul: truth isn’t always a bombshell; sometimes it’s quiet restitution. Working with Hawke again—after their Reservation Dogs detour—Harjo tailored Lee to the actor’s cowboy essence, a truth-seeker who blends heartbreak and hilarity. Tulsa, Harjo argues, holds lessons for America: a city of reconciliation amid ruins, where diverse voices clash and converge. As for what’s next, Harjo envisions serialized adventures à la The Rockford Files, with Lee’s notebook ever-ready for fresh conspiracies. Renewal whispers are in the air, but even if Season 2 eludes us, The Lowdown stands as a testament to storytelling’s power.

In an era of bingeable fluff and grimdark epics, The Lowdown is alive in the messiest, most human way. It’s not clean heroism; it’s a folk tale for fractured times, where a washed-up writer with bad instincts becomes a wrecking ball of justice. Stream it on Hulu, pour a drink, and let Tulsa’s secrets swallow you whole. You won’t just watch—you’ll feel the notebook’s weight in your hand, urging you to chase your own ghosts. At around 1,200 words, this isn’t the end; it’s the spark.