22 July 2026

Golf is a boring sport – and it makes for boring TV

Will Ferrell’s new comedy is strange and niche

The first fallacy of golfing comedy The Hawk, at least to my golfingly ignorant eye, came in the opening episode, with the depiction of a professional golfer enduring a high-intensity workout. Strapped in an exercise bike, with a breathing mask and various medical patches monitoring heart and oxygen – this is the kind of regimen I expect of true athletes, of Jude Bellingham or Simone Biles. But golf? Paunchy, retiree, gin-in-the-clubhouse golf?

I understand that there’s a technical element to the thing, a question of sight and swing, and I suppose competitive players must have strength enough to hit that tiny ball the necessary distances. But when they’ve hit the ball, what happens? I know because, waylaid from a pleasant country footpath by some golf course bypass, I’ve seen them do it, when I’m not ducking between stray drives. They hit the ball, then they hand the heavy stuff to some poor flunkey, and stroll leisurely to hit it again. That is if they don’t get into one of those little carts and quite literally drive to the spot.

I’ve therefore simply never thought of golf as a painstaking or engaging sport, and certainly not the setting for any film or television aspiring to great drama. (Yes, Sean Connery plays golf in Goldfinger – but remember that his opponent, the eponymous Auric, is shaped like a ginger skittle. It’s not exactly Bond at his most heroic, or physically impressive.) Golf is essentially a form of posh outdoor darts, a game for tired football players in the off-season. And it is one that just so chooses to occupy the hectares around London that could really do with some new affordable housing.

Should you share any of these prejudices, they are unlikely to be remedied by The Hawk. Will Ferrell, who has written the comedy, plays the once-great golfer Lonnie Hawkins, and he dresses like the guys I see when they’re ruining my walks: tartan trousers, polyester polo shirt and a visor cap. He’s divorcing, dejected and has been out of form for years, driving between mid-tier tournaments in a motorhome with only his maxed-out credit cards and his loyal caddy, Old Henry, for company. And to make matters worse, his son, Lance, is the star of a new golfing generation (it was him who was suffering through that improbably scientific workout, under the eye of his “fitness influencer” fiancée).

Lonnie seems condemned to sit drinking in bars, watching his son outdo him and hearing voices from the TV. But an underdog-cum-comeback plotline of sorts gradually chugs into gear: after a brief streak, Lonnie finds himself competing against his son. (And my point above stands: it appears to be athletically irrelevant that Lonnie is a fat, boozy wreck.) Still, there are some strange diversions from the get-go – Old Henry dies in the first episode of a sudden heart attack, and we watch Lonnie find a new caddy in a Walmart car park: the manic Sam, who forms something of an odd-couple dynamic with Lonnie.

Even if this all achieves a state of hyper-reality, the jokes never materialise, or if they do, arrive in the most pubescent form. When Lonnie and his son compete in a round of mini-golf they wind up arguing about “dick genes” and whether Lance inherited them from his mother or father. For her part, Lonnie’s ex-wife shouts a lot, in a sort of sub-Veep invective, but only goes to show how un-amusing comedy swearing can be when it is poorly written. There are a couple of inside golf jokes for the clubhouse boys – someone will know what the “Korn Ferry” and “LIV” tours are; I don’t. But none of this is funny enough, not at all.

At his best, Will Ferrell has a special way of being funny. I think it has something to do with the discrepancy between his jowly bulk and the petulant, puerile, often child-like characters he plays. It means that, even when Ferrell is playing comparably dramatic roles, there’s a constant potential for a slapstick collapse, his bulging, curly head and large frame an implicit reminder of physical farce. But he’s wasted in this strange and niche comedy. The great golf drama is still waiting to be made – though I have a feeling it never will be.