‘The Hawk’ Netflix Review: Will Ferrell’s Wild Swing Lands More Bogeys Than Birdies

In The Hawk, the spirit of Will Ferrell’s sports comedies is still very much alive—but the laughs don’t land with the same consistency as in his better-known hits. That may be down to the episodic format, which stretches gags and character quirks past their breaking point, or simply because the template he helped popularise has started to feel overly familiar. A bit Happy Gilmore, a bit Stick, and packed with the kind of offbeat, absurd situations that define Ferrell’s style, The Hawk is a golf comedy that—much like the sport itself—can grow tedious as the holes add up.

The Talladega Nights star plays Lonnie Hawkins, aka “The Hawk,” a once-famous golfer now well past his prime, grinding it out on minor tours far removed from the elite PGA circuit. What sets Hawk apart isn’t his game so much as his persona: loud, flamboyant, and gleefully inappropriate in a sport built on decorum and restraint. He shouts, dances, hypes up the crowd like a footballer, and constantly breaks etiquette—making him a fan favourite and a standing joke among more serious players.

The show’s central dynamic is his fraught relationship with his son Lance (Jimmy Tatro), a successful PGA pro who has surpassed him. Hawk, pathologically competitive and deeply self-involved, can’t stand it. Their tension is mirrored in his strained relationship with Lance’s mother, his ex-wife Stacy (Molly Shannon), now involved with someone new. As Hawkins tries to claw his way back onto the main tour—he needs to win four events on a lower-tier circuit—the series tracks his interactions with a new caddie (Fortune Feimster), a top-ranked rival (Luke Wilson), various sponsors, competitors, and ex-partners. But the emotional spine remains his rivalry with Lance, who is married to an ambitious influencer (Katelyn Tarver) and has his own share of complications.

The Hawk positions itself as a zany sports comedy in classic Ferrell mode, complete with musical interludes, destructive set-pieces, and a barrage of hyper-specific references—to brands, reality TV personalities, and even restaurant chains—that often feel more like fan service or contractual obligations than organic jokes. Notably, the series is produced by the PGA itself, and at times it plays like a glossy promotional vehicle—one that Ferrell gamely undercuts by poking fun at the sport’s stuffier traditions. If the goal is to make golf look cool, fun, and contemporary, the show does succeed on that front.

That promotional sheen isn’t necessarily a deal-breaker—plenty of current films and series double as marketing platforms—but The Hawk falters regardless, largely because its core idea doesn’t sustain the runtime. At heart, the show is little more than another of Ferrell’s oddball creations, the kind he’s played before in films like Blades of Glory, and the joke wears thin over ten half-hour episodes. By the midpoint, it already feels like the writers are running out of ways to escalate the premise beyond dropping Hawk into increasingly outlandish scenarios. Some of these work, but over the season there are more bogeys than birdies—and that’s no way to win tournaments.

Still, there are scattered highlights that feel sparked by Ferrell’s own comic instincts, as if he’s improvising some of the character’s best lines on the spot. These moments tend to come in his exchanges with his caddie (Feimster, a seasoned stand-up), in his scenes with Shannon—one of his most reliable comic partners—or in isolated bits of inspired silliness. But they’re too few and far between to sustain a narrative that runs close to 300 minutes (roughly the length of three average films) and steadily runs out of steam. What begins as mildly charming ends up resembling a group of performers straining for laughs. There’s a reason Happy Gilmore or Semi-Pro are films, not series: this kind of comedy is far better suited to shorter formats.