After I came out as gay almost a decade ago, if a straight friend had suggested they take me on a cross-country road trip to see whether or not people would hate and commit crimes against me, I would have beheaded him want to have. I say this because this is kind of the premise of actor Will Ferrell’s new Netflix documentary about his trans friend. Wil & Harperwhich I fully expected to hate.

The documentary tells how, during the Covid-19 pandemic, Ferrell received an email from Andrew Steele, a friend and former writer of Saturday evening live. Andrew, 61 years old, was transitioning and soon found a new name: Harper, after Killing a mockingbird author Harper Lee. Harper, a consummate road tripper, suggested to Will that because of her transition she might not be able to travel safely to some of the places she had been before. (What exactly she’s afraid of is never explained.) In response, Ferrell suggested he travel across the country with his recently transitioned boyfriend (and a camera crew) for a 16-day road trip. Harper agreed.

This is Netflix, not the Travel Channel, and a layer of danger makes for better TV than a simple tour of the highways and byways of this great country. Ferrell suggests at several points that Harper will be safer by his side, so it’s hard to escape the suspicion that he imagined (or even hoped) that she would be transphobically insulted on camera by some dimwit in the flyover country, to increase the drama and perhaps give Ferrell a chance to step in and play the heroic ally.

This actually never happens.

The film features two unintentional misgendering incidents, one by a Waffle House waitress and one by a drunk bar patron in Oklahoma. They both immediately apologize after being gently corrected by Harper, who handles the situation with grace both times. The scenes in Oklahoma are especially moving. As Harper enters the bar alone — with Will’s number on speed dial for security — the camera zooms in on Confederate flags and “Fuck Biden” to ratchet up the tension among liberal viewers and give them the idea that Harper is finally getting a could be a hate crime. She never is. Everyone is nice. After making friends at the bar, she calls Will in. A group of Native American boys play drums for them. All is well.

In fact, most of the transphobia story is in Wil & Harper was added in post-production. After the two meet Eric Holcomb, the governor of Indiana (who is polite), they Google him and discover that he has signed a bill banning trans medicine for minors, marking the start of a news montage about “anti-trans” legislation . Later, the two are photographed by fellow diners after Ferrell announces their presence at a steakhouse in Texas, and another montage ensues – this one consisting of offensive posts about transgender people on social media, most of which have only a handful of likes. The implication? Even though everyone is nice in real life, there are dozens of bigots 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. Wil & Harper would be a better documentary if it wasn’t so staged. Harper’s trans identity is constantly on display, with either herself or Ferrell announcing her transition to almost everyone they meet. Many of the conversations between the pair follow a certain pattern, with Ferrell acting as an interviewer and asking questions that could very well have come from a reporter, such as whether Harper has ever considered suicide. (Harper reveals that her only suicidal thoughts came before her transition, and then tells 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 doesn’t try to be one.

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

“Don’t be afraid. If you enjoy it, come out,” says the redneck.

“That’s good to hear,” Harper replies. “That’s not how I felt. I keep hearing on the news that there are all kinds of terrible things…’

He interrupts her. “Are you happy?”

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

Harper and Will walk to the car. “I’m a little bit in shock,” Harper said. “And that’s not on them, it’s on me. 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 authentic, messy, and unvarnished. Despite the producers’ best efforts, Harper manages to come across as a deeply human character – and not just red meat dragged through a series of red states. It’s 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 gays. It’s fine.”

And to support more of our work, become a Free Press subscriber today:

Subscribe now