Summary
Will & Harper is one of the best movies of the year, one that seeks to change hearts and minds and, frankly, just might manage it.
I don’t go to Will Ferrell for emotional sentiment, so I was surprised when, in Will & Harper, he moved me to tears several times. Josh Greenbaum’s road trip documentary, which debuted at Sundance and is now streaming on Netflix, is a deeply earnest and truly moving experience that deserves the highest compliment I can bestow – I think everyone, no matter who they are or what they’re into, should watch it.
As is obvious from the title, the movie’s only half about Will Ferrell. Its real subject is Ferrell’s best friend and longtime collaborator, Harper Steele. The two met on Saturday Night Live, where Steele was a writer and Ferrell was an on-screen talent who needed the right material. Steele provided it, later became head writer on the show, and then left to work for Ferrell’s Funny or Die, co-writing Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga.
The idea for the movie came from Ferrell, shortly after Harper transitioned. He had always known her as rather masculine and quintessentially American, prone to drinking cheap beer and traveling the country to indulge in its finest ball games, diners, and roadside bars. The Iowa-born Steele is similarly curious about how the country she loves so much will look, seeing it for the first time with her own eyes. But the question is whether that country will love her back.
I never quite realized how much of Ferrell’s on-screen persona is his actual personality. That affable, bumbling, slightly dorky demeanor is really his. And it proves to be the masterstroke of Will & Harper since it allows very serious insight and at times wrenching emotional pain to be softened with really funny bits, like Ferrell telling Steele’s kids he knows jiujitsu, or repeatedly contriving excuses to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts.
Somehow, it never feels too orchestrated. There’s a case to be made that America perhaps wouldn’t be as amenable to a trans woman as it is to Steele if she wasn’t accompanied by beloved comedy icon Will Ferrell, but that’s beside the point. Steele gets her share of stick, including deplorable social media posts every time they’re spotted, including at a Pacers game where she’s inadvertently photographed with Eric Holcomb, the governor of Indiana who passed a lot of vehemently anti-trans legislation. Ferrell’s regret over this blunder is painfully earnest.
The best and most crushing moment of Will & Harper is when the itinerary takes Steele to a bar in Oklahoma; exactly the kind of place she used to frequent prior to transitioning. Steele enters alone at first, with Ferrell waiting outside like security in case it goes wrong, but everyone in the bar embraces her quickly. Eventually, she and Ferrell are being serenaded by Native Americans, and you can see Steele wiping away a tear. When they’re later leaving a stock car race she says to Ferrell, “I’m not really afraid of hating these people. I’m afraid of hating myself.”
Painfully frank comments like this are what make this documentary so valuable. Greenbaum isn’t trying to redo Barb & Star Go to Vista del Mar here. It isn’t a road trip for entertainment purposes but for soul-searching, and the conversations Ferrell and Steele have in the car between stops are sometimes remarkable in their fumbling openness. Steele learns, gradually, that Ferrell, and likely most other people in her life who love her, care about her happiness more than her gender. And Ferrell learns, to his regret, how much pain his best friend was in, and how long for, without his knowledge.
This sense of humanity and understanding runs so deep that it doesn’t matter how many SNL alumni show up for cameos (a very funny one involves Kristen Wiig.) It doesn’t matter that Ferrell’s profile leads them to several quite bizarre scenarios where he tries going undercover, once as Sherlock Holmes and again as David Abernathy, a ridiculous-looking character who tries to convince the steakhouse server, who can tell immediately that it’s Will Ferrell, that he used to be Bette Midler’s manager.
Will & Harper doesn’t minimize the dangers and persecution trans people face, but it paints a mostly charming portrait of acceptance and tolerance, with almost every ordinary person the two bump into welcoming Steele with open arms. People like Holcomb are rather unambiguously presented as villains, but there’s no preachy judgment of those, even like Ferrell, who are curious and confused and want to ask the obvious questions they think they might not be supposed to. Steele’s warmth and understanding put Ferrell at ease enough to ask some of those questions, and crack some of those jokes, and seeing two friends get to the bottom of things is an oddly powerful thing.
Will & Harper, like a lot of movies, especially non-fiction ones, wants to change hearts and minds. Unlike a lot of movies, I genuinely think it will. It’s a profoundly open and honest exploration of not just a friendship but of America itself, from its corridors of power to its most run-down, flag-festooned roadside watering holes. Like Harper Steele, I think I know where I’d prefer to be.
