Gemma Creagh tops up the gas tank with warm, heartfelt documentary Will and Harper.
Among the tropes of troubled and tortured artists, comedians are the most infamous. The career of a comic is synonymous with depression, addiction and mental illness. And the largest institution of the art form, Saturday Night Live has been notorious for housing all three over the years. Described as a gruff curmudgeon, Andrew Steele rose through the ranks of SNL alongside some of the most influential names in comedy to become head writer. Despite this profound professional success, behind closed doors he was deeply unhappy. All this changed with one important email was sent to Andrew’s friends and family during the COVID lockdown. She is now Harper, a trans woman.
“I’m one of the greatest actors in the world,” announces Will Ferrell in his classic dry-but-oddly-earnest delivery synonymous with his roles in Anchorman or Old School. As Harper’s close friend for almost three decades, Will insists they go on a road trip, travelling from Harper’s home on the East Coast of the United States, then driving 3,000 miles to the Pacific Ocean. This pilgrimage starts with open conversations; Will chats with Harper’s daughters about the shift in their relationship with Harper, followed by a meal with the pair’s old SNL colleagues Tina Fey, Tim Meadows and Seth Meyers.
The spectre of Will’s universal celebrity weighs heavy over the course of this journey. He draws attention, not all of which is positive. They visit spaces Harper hasn’t been since she transitioned. First, the pair attend a basketball game in Indiana. Court-side Will is formally introduced to the Governor, who, unknown to Will, is a conservative local leader responsible for rolling back trans rights and protections. On their trip through these central states, they visit the nooks and crannies of conservative fly-over states. At one point Will and Harper pitch up their camp chairs and drink two beers—which they dub Dolours and Cornelius—stopping in glorious locations such as the Grand Canyon and the parking lot of a Walmart. The reactions of the people they meet along the way run the spectrum of warm, regretful, kind and curious to vitriolic. Harper is misgendered and in one instance in Texas, and then their safety is compromised. And as Will is recognised in public, spiteful online posts ping into their phones.
As Will and Harper span these miles, their discussions meander, sometimes delving into the practical physicality of gender dysphoria and other times re-enacting silly improvised “bits”. The physical comedy of Will Ferrell going undercover in the most ostentatious wig and fake moustache, being followed by an entire film crew, and posing as Barbra Streisand’s old manager is all the more hilarious given the emotional weight underpinning this poignant dinner between two old comrades.
As she appears on screen, Harper presents with a rawness, watching for the reactions of the strangers she engages with. Her eyes scan Will’s face too, as she reveals more and more of herself. Meanwhile Will’s playfulness and gentle, curious probing leads to authentic and emotionally honest conversations. This is a quiet, thoughtful and surprisingly moving piece of cinema. And if all of the above doesn’t sound appealing, it’s worth the watch alone for the surprisingly powerful and polished closing musical number from Kristen Wiig.
Will and Harper is available to stream on Netflix now.