After I came out as gay nearly a decade ago, if a straight friend had proposed taking me on a cross-country road trip to see whether or not people would hate-crime me, I would have wanted him beheaded. I say this because it’s kind of the premise of the actor Will Ferrell’s new Netflix documentary about his trans friend, Will & Harper, which I was fully expecting to hate.
The documentary recounts how, during the Covid-19 pandemic, Ferrell got an email from Andrew Steele, a friend and former writer on Saturday Night Live. Andrew, aged 61, was transitioning, and soon found a new name: Harper, after To Kill a Mockingbird author Harper Lee. A consummate road-tripper, Harper suggested to Will that, due to her transition, she might not be able to safely travel to some of the places she had previously gone. (What exactly she is afraid of is never explained.) In response, Ferrell proposed to travel the country with his newly transitioned friend (and a camera crew) on a 16-day road trip. Harper agreed.
This is Netflix, not the Travel Channel, and a veneer of danger makes for better TV than a simple tour of the highways and byways of this great nation. Ferrell suggests at various points that Harper will be safer by his side, so it’s difficult to escape the suspicion that he imagined—or even hoped—that she might be transphobically insulted on camera by some yokel in flyover country, to increase the drama and perhaps allow Ferrell the chance to step in and play the heroic ally.
This never really happens.
The film contains two accidental misgendering incidents, one by a Waffle House waitress and one by a drunk bar patron in Oklahoma. Both of them immediately apologize after being gently corrected by Harper, who handles the situation with grace both times. The Oklahoma scenes are particularly touching. As Harper enters the bar alone—with Will’s number on speed dial for safety—the camera zooms in on Confederate and “Fuck Biden” flags, to raise the tension for liberal viewers and give them the idea that Harper might finally be hate-crimed. She never is. Everyone is nice. After making friends at the bar, she calls Will in. A group of Native American guys play drums for them. All is well.
In fact, the bulk of the transphobia narrative in Will & Harper was added in post-production. After the two meet Eric Holcomb, the governor of Indiana (who is polite), they google him and find that he has signed a bill banning trans medicine for minors, which marks the beginning of a news montage about “anti-trans” legislation. Later, the two are photographed by fellow diners after Ferrell announces their presence at a Texas steakhouse, and another montage follows—this one consisting of insulting posts about trans people on social media, most of which have only a handful of likes. The implication? Even if everyone is nice in person, there are scores of bigoted people in America—we just didn’t happen to meet any.
I’ve seen enough reality TV to recognize the invisible hand of a producer. And I wish the producers had been fired. Will & Harper would be a better documentary if it wasn’t so staged. Harper’s trans identity is put on constant display, with either herself or Ferrell announcing her transition to nearly everyone they meet. Many of the conversations between the pair follow a particular pattern, with Ferrell acting as an interviewer, asking questions that could very well have come from a reporter, like whether Harper has ever considered suicide. (Harper reveals that her only suicidal thoughts came before her transition, then recounts a harrowing story about going to a gun store and then leaving without buying anything.) But Harper is not the actor that Ferrell is, and the film is at its best when she isn’t trying to be one.
One day in Oklahoma, Will and Harper go to a boxcar race, where the latter tells a local all-American guy in a work jacket and a baseball cap that she used to love going to places like this but is afraid now, after transitioning.
“Don’t be afraid. If you enjoy it, come out,” the redneck says.
“That’s good to hear,” Harper replies. “That’s not how I felt. I keep hearing on the news there’s all this terrible stuff—”
He cuts her off. “Are you happy?”
“Oh, I’m 100 percent happier,” Harper says.
Harper and Will walk to the car. “I’m a little bit in shock,” Harper says. “And that’s not on them, that’s on me. I’m really not afraid of these people. I’m afraid of hating myself.”
She breaks down in the car and begins crying. It’s one of a few moments in the documentary that felt truly genuine, messy, and unvarnished. Despite the producers’ best efforts, Harper manages to come across as a deeply human character—not mere red meat to be dragged through a series of red states. It is impossible not to like her, and in that sense, the film is a success.
River Page is a reporter for The Free Press. Follow him on X @river_is_nice and read his piece, “Stop Saying Florida Isn’t Safe for Gay People. It’s Fine.”
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