WILL & HARPER - Mark Reviews Movies

Will & Harper, Netflix

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Review by Mark Dujsik | September 26, 2024

When he first started working at "Saturday Night Live" in 1995, Will Ferrell quickly made a friend in one of the show's newly hired writers. The two shared a sense of humor, and while many on the show dismissed Ferrell as a comedic "dud," this writer supported the up-and-coming actor. They would work together on the show and beyond it, as Ferrell's star rose, and as explained at the start of Will & Harper, the writer sent emails in 2022 to multiple people, including the actor, coming out as a trans woman.

There are two stories in this documentary, playing alongside each other. The first belongs to Harper Steele, the friend and writer, who felt gender dysphoria her entire life but, following the isolation of the COVID-19 pandemic and a lifetime of discomfort in her own body, decided this was the time to transition. We learn a bit of that old life at beginning, too, because Steele loved to travel the country, spend time in various dive bars and truck stops, and interact with anyone she would meet along the way.

None of that has changed about her, but Steele is a realist. Some little bar in the middle of nowhere in certain parts of the country might not be as accommodating to her now that she has transitioned, but the desire to do the things she loves, now feeling more like herself and happier than she might ever have been about her identity, remains strong. How does she test the waters and, hopefully, overcome that fear?

That's where Ferrell's story comes into play. He is a good friend—a true friend in ways that are constantly revealed throughout the course of director Josh Greenbaum's documentary. Ferrell knows what his friend wants, and he also knows that, as a world-famous actor and someone who might be able to disarm a potentially hostile situation by way of either his humor or his fame, he might be able to help Steele navigate this new social reality of her life.

The two decide to take a road trip from upstate New York, where Steele lives, to California, stopping in various cities and towns and, yes, those joints that Steele loves so much. In a practical sense, the dynamic of this trip is a transactional one. Steele will have Ferrell's support, and Ferrell, who has never had a personal relationship with a trans person before now, can learn everything Steele is willing to discuss with her friend.

That's the gimmicky way of putting this film, which doesn't feel like a gimmick because its subjects are so sincere, so thoughtful, and so frankly honest here. There are no rules for the trip or the conversations that the two will have, except that they will be honest with each other, even if it's uncomfortable.

It rarely is, of course, because they are friends in the best and purest sense of that kind of relationship. Ferrell knows that Steele trusts him enough with her story and, potentially, her safety, and Steele knows that Ferrell is a compassionate man beneath his jokey nature.

This might, then, be separate stories, as Steele discovers more comfort as a woman in public and Ferrell learns more about the particulars of being transgender, but the film exists and thrives on a singular narrative. It's simply watching as two friends get to know each other on a level that hopefully isn't too rare for people. Life can be so lonely, and here's a heartening reminder that, with the right people, it doesn't have to be.

That's the broad sensation of watching Greenbaum's film, and it's more than enough. Whether or not the filmmaker and subjects really get at the specifics of the topic at hand is important but not necessarily essential to the film's success. It takes some big swings, especially as Ferrell and Steele venture out to a basketball game at a packed stadium in Indianapolis, a stock car race in Oklahoma, a steak house in Texas, and various little diners and bars and shops across the country. These expeditions are practice for Steele in a way, but at a certain point, we start to wonder about the movie-star elephant in the room.

Ferrell, Steele, and the film itself are increasingly aware of this conundrum, in that Ferrell is both a potentially calming element for any prejudice Steele might face and a spotlight-like influence on bringing more attention to his friend than she might otherwise have. As an experiment in gauging strangers' attitude about and opinion of Steele's presence, it's probably not effective. In trying to figure out if trans people are more accepted now across the country than they might have been in the past, the film is less helpful.

In a way, though, those bigger goals are almost irrelevant, because the core of the documentary—simply spending time with Ferrell and Steele, as they talk and joke and are candid with each other—is so quietly affecting. Pretty quickly, the whole gimmick of the narrative—the road trip and the idea that the two will ask the tough questions along the way—just kind of dissolves. We're left with nothing more and, since it is so vital, nothing less than a pair of friends bonding over the past, discussing their worries and hopes of the present, and working toward whatever future their relationship will have.

Will & Harper cares about these two and their separate stories. More importantly, it allows us to see how much they care for each other in their shared story.

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