A Snapshot of 2024: Learning Empathy with “Will & Harper”

There is one recurring gag throughout my adulthood that I didn’t see coming. Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like prior generations experienced it to the extent that we are currently. Every day it feels like I turn on the internet and grow more disappointed both in the world but also myself for foolishly believing that the people I trusted have shown their true colors. It’s the type of behavior that makes you question your entire moral compass. How have you grown older and more enlightened but the people who sought to shape your formative years remain problematic?

I’m not even talking in the sense of just saying off color jokes that catch you off guard. I’m a supporter of any comedian who can make a truly vicious punchline land. However, there has been this pushback against common decency that has transcended the communal grounds of playful banter. In its place is double downing on terrible opinions mistaken for humor. This isn’t necessarily new. I remember feeling confused when the first move Ricky Gervais made upon getting in shape was attack fat people. He’s only grown more reprehensible since. I think he’s the embodiment of the comedian who made it and stopped punching up. Now that he’s at the top, he’s jabbing the easiest targets, believing it will keep fans loyal. But are they laughing because he’s insightful or reasserting bigoted beliefs of his audience?

I shouldn’t say that Gervais was the only figure that grew disappointing with time. He was merely among the first. When I was in high school, his U.K. take of The Office was mythic and the need to watch reruns on [adult swim] gave me credibility. It was the funny new style of comedy. In an age where South Park was considered top shelf, anything that provoked ire was in demand. What I wouldn’t expect is that these figures eventually transcended satire and became progenitors of bad opinions. What seemed funny as a teenager began to seem bizarre in my 20s as I attended college and learned about subtext and artistic intent. By the 2020s, I was reaching the age of when these artists first blew up and realizing that if I wasn’t careful I’d fall into the inability to separate satire from genuine intention. 

The past decade has been more and more disappointing in terms of who our Millennial idols were. There was a sense of mistrust in learning that so many figures of the early aughts were very close-minded. The master of racial commentary, Dave Chappelle, gave up his status to target trans women. The guy who hosted Fear Factor started a podcast that platformed harmful rhetoric. J.K. Rowling… well, we all know what she’s done. Adam Carolla, who used to be a fan favorite of Southern California radio and shilled out relationship advice on Loveline, has long had his name on the list but keeps getting rediscovered as a misogynistic tool. These are only prominent names, but the list goes on and on to the point that you have to question why Millennials should admire anyone they liked when they were 15. 

I know this essay stems from a somewhat hyperbolic viewpoint. As a species, humans are flawed and expectations for anyone to match perfection is impossible. However, there is that desire to find artists who don’t have some sinister undertones. You want to believe that they create art that, no matter how prodding, is a fictitious extension of their brand. There needs to be someone who can be a genuinely kind and caring person while still being over the top and funny. The easy answer is that there’s many who fit this box. They’re just quiet and don’t attract press the way the vulgarity does. 


Earlier this year, Netflix released the documentary Will & Harper (2024). It focused on comedian Will Ferrell’s relationship with Harper Steele as they went on a cross-country trip. Think Epstein & Friedman work Where Are We? Our Trip Through America (1993) where they explored what it meant to live in Middle America during a political turning point. Will & Harper may be less ambitious, but it still functions in a very similar form. Ferrell, who also produced, demanded that the film be released prior to the presidential election. The hope was that it would create enough empathy to sway voters and consider the power of their decisions. 

I’m not sure we could say that this was a resounding success. For as much as the election can be attributed to other factors, notably economic woes, it does feel like the conversation around the LGBTQIA+ community remains divisive. Even in the weeks leading up to election day, I watched The World Series and became sick at this recurring commercial about Kamala Harris giving “illegal aliens” in prison gender reassignment surgery. There was something cruel in its effectiveness to outshine any larger humane discourse that was being had in the wake of Will & Harper. To put it simply, any success of the documentary was more on a person-to-person level than a national phenomenon. If the U.S. map’s increasing shades of red (even in notorious blue states) meant anything, the fight was being lost.

And yet this is one of those cultural moments that gave me hope. In a year that has had some phenomenal queer films like I Saw The TV Glow (2024) and The People’s Joker (2024), there was something about Will & Harper that I felt was quaint and familiar. For as much as this story is singular to Harper Steele, there is enough universality to make you understand that the trans identity is about more than “the parts” in a sense. It isn’t just a rejection of the binary or needing to wear a certain garment. No. What the documentary did very well was show the complexities of what it means to live in a world that feels alien to you first internally and then, upon transition, externally. This story is anything but convenient.

Whereas fiction is allowed to play with abstraction, documentaries are forced to engage with something on a more honest level. It is here that everything begins to fall into place and I think the effectiveness of Will & Harper appears. In an age where Gervais, Rowling, Chappelle, etc. are promoting hate speech, having Ferrell stand up for his trans friend is a big deal. He isn’t a Gen-Z influencer who is more likely to have left-leaning beliefs. He is an established comedian with enough influence to sway a different audience’s perspective. To him, Steele is not an object on a shelf to gaze at and contemplate where it goes. To him, she is a real person deserving of having her story heard. Even the nature of Steele coming out later in life provides a perspective that is rarely seen in any media. 

For something that could be mistaken as a commercial ploy, the documentary ends up being the perfect time capsule for where trans rights are in 2024. The Olympics found Rowling attacking a cisgender athlete because of her masculine appearance. The first openly trans woman congress member has found her colleagues attempting to remove her rights to use the bathroom. With the added risk of losing healthcare, it’s a time where the small advantages are at risk of being taken away. They’re as demonized as gay people were 20 years ago. Thankfully, the small difference is that there’s enough prominent voices out there to keep this from feeling like everyone will be steamrolled yet again.

Which is why I’ve found myself admiring Ferrell. I understand the point is not to celebrate the ally. His job is relatively easy. However, his willingness to stand by Steele throughout the documentary is so powerful. He takes her to NBA games and lets her share in the public celebration. His officiation of topics may seem a bit trivial, but there is this profound beauty in allowing Steele a platform to speak. He’s a friend. He jokes with her like friends do. Nothing feels like a TV special. It’s about being raw and honest. Even if it gets personal, the details aren’t exploitative. This is an effort to understand who Steele is, and I’d argue that the documentary does a fantastic job.

By telling the story on as bare bones of a level as they can, Ferrell and Steele allow the humanity to really shine. It’s not just about the motivations of a trans individual. There’s also scenes where they’re loitering in the various cities. Steele rides a unicycle at one point. They’re seen experiencing the most basic levels of joy. There is a sense of fulfillment in having company that loves you and wants the best for you. Given that they have worked together for decades, the report is in top form and allows for a lot of kinetic humor to develop in between any vulnerable revelations. 

As someone more familiar with stories around the trans identity, I don’t know that Will & Harper is necessarily as groundbreaking as something like Dressed in Blue (1983) or The Salt Mines (1990). However, I think that’s to suggest that I’ve found empathy for the community long ago and want to see them get their basic human rights. Even when it seems limited in larger achievement to me, it restores hope in the potential for these narratives. Even with Ferrell being the big selling point, I think he’s compassionate and aware enough to know when to step back and let Steele have her say. If this can get a few people to start questioning their views, then I’ll consider it to be a success.

I understand that I started this essay with the idea of not trusting artists I liked when I was in high school. In most cases, I have actively tried to distance myself or at least be critical of the art in helpful ways. Ferrell’s career is far from perfect and I’d argue he’s made his share of mistakes. However, I think he’s proven with this recent venture that he’s willing to listen and change. To me, that’s what’s more important in all of this. We only grow from listening to others and appreciating the complexities of the world around us. When you close yourself off, you risk becoming self-involved and miserable. I’m relieved to know that Ferrell is still putting in the work. Even if Will & Harper wasn’t enough to sway an election (which I doubt it ever would’ve), I’m glad it exists as evidence that you can grow old and not become a complete jerk. If anything, you can live a better life as your authentic self. In a time of darkness, there is a need to have that optimism to make the future seem potentially brighter. 

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