Will Ferrell plays a washed-up golf pro attempting a comeback in The Hawk.
Colleen E. Hayes/Netflix
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Colleen E. Hayes/Netflix
The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein was one of the daunting intellects of the 20th century. But when it came to entertainment, he liked dumb comedies. “Never stay up on the barren heights of cleverness,” he wrote, “but come down into the green valleys of silliness.”
Few stars have spent more time roaming these valleys than Will Ferrell. Ever since becoming beloved on Saturday Night Live, he specialized in a brand of surreal, lighthearted goofiness striking for its lack of meanness. His trademark role is that of the blusterous man-child or overgrown boy. In Hollywood hits like Elf, Anchorman and Talladega Nights, Ferrell used that persona to create carnivalesque movies. They blend genre parodies, musical numbers, physical shtick, mockery of male bravado, and moments of bottom-baring slapstick far bolder than you find in his more guarded peers like Adam Sandler and Ben Stiller.
But movie comedy has fallen on hard times, and like many others, he’s turned to Netflix for a new series, The Hawk. Working a similar turf, if not style, to Sandler’s Happy Gilmore, it’s an amiably shambly golfing comedy that finds him doing all the familiar Will Ferrell things. Although he’s an acquired taste I’ve never fully acquired, I found myself laughing enough to watch all 10 half-hour episodes.
Ferrell plays Lonnie Hawkins, aka “The Hawk,” a self-absorbed pro golfer who was No. 1 in the world in 2004. Then he choked on his final putt of the U.S. Open and went into a tailspin that’s kept him off the PGA tour for years.
Still hoping to get back to the top, Lonnie plays small tournaments along with his new freewheeling caddy Sam (Fortune Feimster) who he stumbles across in a Walmart parking lot. With her help, he goes on a hot streak and gets back on the tour, much to the delight of his adoring fans who always loved the braggadocio and crowd-pleasing antics that enrage the stuffed shirts of the golf establishment.
Not everyone is delighted by his return. His mere presence annoys his foul-tongued ex-wife Stacy — that’s Molly Shannon — and unleashes an oedipal meltdown in his son Lance — that’s Jimmy Tatro — also a professional golfer. A muscled-up ball of tension, Lance is engaged to a wellness influencer who, in a witty twist, is the one character who isn’t bonkers.
Naturally, Lonnie’s golfing methods are certifiably inane. In one scene, he has an imaginary conversation with his golf ball before unleashing a mighty drive. As Lonnie and Lance head toward the inevitable golfing showdown, alongside their smug nemesis, played by Luke Wilson, the question becomes: How can Lonnie win the Open and reconcile with his son?
Now, silly comedies need to be short. The Hawk clocks in at nearly five hours — more than three hours longer than any of Ferrell’s hits. The story’s too thin to support such length, even when buttressed by amusing shenanigans, of which there are plenty. There are songs and fantasy sequences, surprise cameos and insults whizzing around like gunfire. There’s a ludicrous scene at a urinal, a hilariously deployed pickle jar, a nifty gag about a tower made of donuts, and even a throwaway joke about E.M. Forster’s novel Maurice — a reminder that dumb comedies are made by smart people.
And, of course, there’s Ferrell, a famously nice guy whose annoying comic style is as polarizing as he himself is not. Lonnie is a good role for him in part because he’s a devoted golfer who often turns up at celebrity Pro-Ams, and partly because he may identify a bit with The Hawk. Although his fans still love him, his biggest movies were back in the Aughts.
With his large frame and suburban dad’s bland face — just perfect for portraying self-delighted narcissism — Ferrell gives Lonnie his all, whether flying into a panicked frenzy when he’s trapped inside a car for 10 seconds, singing the “baby back ribs” jingle, or looking stunned when people say he’s heartless for doing something heartless. Where there’s usually something nasty lurking within comics who play overgrown boys — Sandler excels at dark dramatic roles — Ferrell always exudes innocence. Even though Lonnie lets everyone down who loves him, he never really feels like a bad guy.
As The Hawk sloped toward its sneaky, quasi-sentimental ending, I found myself respecting Ferrell’s love of, and commitment to unabashed silliness. Although, like Lonnie Hawkins, he’s a bit too old for the young man’s game he’s playing, he still pulls off some unreal shots.
