Will Ferrell's trans documentary is surprisingly moving

After coming out as gay almost a decade ago, if a straight friend had suggested taking me on a cross-country road trip to see if people would hate me or not. I say this because it's sort of the premise of actor Will Ferrell's new Netflix documentary about his transgender friend. Will & Harperwhich I fully expected him to hate.

The documentary tells how Ferrell received an email from Andrew Steele, a friend and former author, during the Covid-19 pandemic Saturday Night Live. The 61-year-old Andrew was in a transition phase and soon found a new name: Harper To kill a mockingbird Author Harper Lee. Harper, an avid road tripper, suggested to Will that because of her transition, she might no longer be able to safely travel to some of the places she had previously been. (Exactly what she's afraid of is never explained.) In response, Ferrell suggested traveling the country with his newly transitioned boyfriend (and a camera crew) on a 16-day road trip. Harper agreed.

This is Netflix, not the Travel Channel, and a hint of danger makes for better television than a simple tour of the highways and byways of this great nation. Ferrell suggests at several points that Harper will be safer at his side, and so it's hard to escape the suspicion that he imagined – or even hoped – that she would be transphobic on camera by some idiot in flyover land could be insulted to heighten the drama and perhaps give Ferrell a chance to step in and play the heroic ally.

That never really happens.

The film contains two random incidents of gender misconduct, one by a Waffle House waitress and one by a drunken bar patron in Oklahoma. They both immediately apologize after being gently corrected by Harper, who handles the situation with grace both times. The scenes from Oklahoma are particularly touching. As Harper enters the bar alone – Will's number on speed dial for security reasons – the camera zooms in on Confederate flags and “Fuck Biden” to heighten the tension among liberal viewers and give them the idea that Harper is finally may have committed a hate crime. She never is. Everyone is nice. After making friends at the bar, she calls Will over. A group of Native Americans plays drums for them. Everything is good.

In fact, most of the transphobia narrative is 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 transgender medicine for minors, which begins a news montage about “Anti-Trans.” “legislation marked. Later, the two are photographed by other guests after Ferrell announces their presence at a Texas steakhouse, and another montage follows – this one consisting of offensive posts about trans people on social media, most of which only have a handful of likes. The implication? Even though everyone is nice in person, there are plenty of bigoted people in America – we just haven't met 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 staged like that. Harper's trans identity is constantly on display, with either herself or Ferrell announcing their transition to almost everyone they meet. Many of the conversations between the two follow a certain pattern, with Ferrell acting as an interviewer and asking questions that could easily come from a reporter, such as whether Harper has ever considered suicide. (Harper reveals that she had only suicidal thoughts before her transition, then tells a harrowing story about going into a gun store and then leaving without buying anything.) But Harper isn't the actor Ferrell is, and the film is then at its best She doesn't try to be one.

One day, Will and Harper go to a boxcar race in Oklahoma, where Harper tells a local all-American man in a work jacket and baseball cap that she used to enjoy visiting places like this but is now afraid after the change.

“Have no fear. If you enjoy it, come out,” says the redneck.

“That’s good to hear,” Harper replies. “I didn’t feel that way. I keep hearing on the news that there are all these terrible things happening…”

He interrupts her. “Are you happy?”

“Oh, I’m 100 percent happier,” Harper says.

Harper and Will walk to the car. “I’m a little in shock,” Harper says. “And that’s not their fault, that’s my fault. I'm really not afraid of these people. I’m afraid of hating myself.”

She breaks down in the car and starts crying. It's one of the few moments in the documentary that felt truly real, messy and raw. Despite the producers' best efforts, Harper manages to come across as a deeply human character – not just red meat being dragged through a series of red states. It's impossible not to like them, and in that sense the film is a success.

River Page is a reporter for The Free Press. Follow him on

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