The Hawk: A Missed Putt in the World of Golf Comedies
There’s something deeply disappointing about a show that squanders its potential as thoroughly as The Hawk does. On paper, it’s a dream project: Will Ferrell, Molly Shannon, Jimmy Tatro, and a roster of comedic heavyweights tackling the quirky world of golf. But in execution, it’s like watching a golfer with a perfect swing miss the ball entirely. What makes this particularly fascinating is how a show with so much talent can feel so utterly directionless.
From my perspective, the core issue with The Hawk is its inability to commit to anything—not its tone, its characters, or even its jokes. Take the opening credits song, for instance. It’s a cheeky ’80s rock anthem with the lyrics, “They call him the Hawk/ He’s a golfer/ The greatest golfer in the world.” Except, of course, those aren’t the lyrics—they’re the only lyrics. It’s a clever gag, but it’s also a warning sign. The show is content to skate by on minimalism, and that lack of effort permeates every scene.
One thing that immediately stands out is how the show mishandles its protagonist, Lonnie “The Hawk” Hawkins. Ferrell’s character is a former golf legend who’s fallen into a nebulous rut, stuck on the Korn-Ferry Tour after a vague, poorly explained meltdown. Here’s where the show’s laziness becomes glaring. Lonnie’s decline is never fleshed out—it’s just a plot point we’re expected to accept. What many people don’t realize is that character motivation is the backbone of comedy. Without it, even the funniest actors are left flailing.
And flail they do. Ferrell’s signature blend of narcissism and childishness is on full display, but it’s watered down to the point of blandness. Molly Shannon’s Stacy is reduced to a one-note character hawking canned cocktails, while Jimmy Tatro’s Lance feels like a collection of half-baked traits rather than a fully realized person. Even Fortune Feimster’s caddie, Sam, is saddled with a “mysterious past” that’s revealed in the most underwhelming way possible.
If you take a step back and think about it, The Hawk feels like a show that was assembled by committee rather than crafted with care. The involvement of PGA Tour Studios is particularly telling. The show is allowed to use real tour events and sponsors, but instead of leveraging this for satire or insight, it devolves into a litany of product placements. Characters frequent Buffalo Wild Wings, rave about McDonald’s, and obsess over chocolate bars—and that’s supposed to be the joke. It’s not.
This raises a deeper question: What is The Hawk trying to say? Is it a satire of the golf world? A character study of a washed-up athlete? A family drama? The answer, unfortunately, is none of the above. The show lacks a clear angle, a unifying theme, or even a reason for existing. It’s as if someone said, “Golf is funny because of the outfits and the double entendres,” and stopped there.
What this really suggests is that The Hawk is a victim of its own ambition—or lack thereof. It wants to be a loose, improvisational comedy in the vein of Eastbound & Down or Curb Your Enthusiasm, but it lacks the discipline to pull it off. Those shows may feel chaotic, but they’re meticulously structured. The Hawk, by contrast, is just sloppy. Characters appear and disappear without consequence, plot threads are left dangling, and the humor rarely lands.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the show’s treatment of the PGA Tour and its rival, the LIV Tour. The PGA is portrayed as “amusing but cool,” while the LIV Tour is dismissed as the “Arab Tour”—a xenophobic jab that feels more lazy than edgy. There’s no real critique here, no attempt to engage with the complexities of the golf world. It’s all surface-level, and that’s a missed opportunity.
Personally, I think The Hawk is a cautionary tale about what happens when talent isn’t paired with vision. Ferrell’s sports comedies have ranged from the beloved (Talladega Nights) to the forgettable (Kicking & Screaming), but The Hawk is easily his most shapeless effort. It’s not just that the show is unfunny—it’s that it feels disposable, a placeholder in a streaming landscape already crowded with placeholders.
What makes this particularly tragic is the wasted potential. Imagine a version of The Hawk with sharper writing, clearer character arcs, and a willingness to take risks. It could have been a darkly funny exploration of failure, redemption, and the absurdity of professional sports. Instead, it’s a show that’s content to coast on its cast’s charisma—and even that isn’t enough to save it.
In the end, The Hawk is a reminder that talent alone isn’t enough. Comedy requires focus, purpose, and a willingness to take risks. This show has none of those things, and the result is a missed putt that never even comes close to the hole.
