Glen Powell Catfishes Again: Hulu’s “Chad Powers” Courts Controversy and Comedy Gold

Olivia Bennett, 12/4/2025Glen Powell's "Chad Powers" returns for a second season, blending absurdity and social commentary in a sports comedy that challenges identity and deception. As viewers anticipate more hijinks and drama, the show proves to be a standout amid the sea of feel-good narratives on streaming platforms.

Hard to imagine, perhaps, if you missed the first wave. For those still rattled by the sugar-rush aftertaste of “Ted Lasso,” “Chad Powers” is a far cry from wholesome pep talks and British biscuits. Powell’s Russ Holliday—a onetime Oregon quarterback thoroughly outfoxed by his own ego—crafts an audacious comeback plan: hide that chiseled baby face under a hood of synthetic hair, grunt like an oddball, and slip unnoticed onto an SEC roster as “Chad Powers.” It’s a charade that borders on performance art, if the performance were an existential crisis in cleats.

For Hulu, which has lately made curious antiheroes and social media catnip something of a house specialty, the show couldn’t have come at a better time. The streamer’s announcement—delivered with its digital smirk—reads like pure fan service. Powell’s prosthetic odyssey will continue, and viewers can expect even more high-gloss trickery and hijinks in the coming season. Evidently, in the click-hungry arena of streaming, there’s no expiration date for watching one dubious mustache fool a nation devoted to tailgate grills and instant replays.

Now, the show itself is something of a shape-shifter: part ESPN stunt, part baroque sports melodrama. The blueprint? Borrowed from Eli Manning’s infamous latex-swaddled infiltration of a college tryout—a prank so pointedly American it deserves its own Rockwell painting. Only, where Manning’s antics were a one-off, “Chad Powers” leans into the absurd, refusing to blink.

Creative minds behind the curtain—Powell and Michael Waldron, yes, the same Waldron who scrambled the Marvel timeline with “Loki”—have produced a series that’s either a clever subversion or too clever by half, depending on which critic’s cocktail napkin you read. There are those who squint and see a smug echo of “Ted Lasso’s” heart. Others, especially over at The A.V. Club, seem less enthused, glancing at the script and declaring—rather ungenerously—that it’s “mean as shit without even having the decency to be funny about it.” Some find the show refreshing for precisely that edge. If “Ted Lasso” is the full-calorie sports drink, this is the off-brand, still-caffeinated fizz with a distinctly bitter afterkick.

Yet, numbers do what numbers do: speak louder than a coach in a playoff locker room. Debuting autumn last, “Chad Powers” found itself circling Luminate’s Top 50 streamer chart, cruising from No. 34 to No. 19 in just a week—no small feat when half the streaming world is busy wrangling reboots and familiar IP. Evidently, prosthetic chins and implausible backstories still have an audience in 2025, especially if the algorithm feels lucky.

Broadening the appeal is a cast that looks assembled from the wildest crossover event never pitched. Perry Mattfeld brings a touch of gravitas shaded with wry humor as Ricky. Quentin Plair handles Coach Byrd with the sort of authority that might actually inspire a team to sneak into the playoffs. Wynn Everett, Frankie A. Rodriguez, and the ever-adaptable Steve Zahn round out a roster that feels both eccentric and—crucially—not self-conscious about it. Each character, from locker room to endzone banter, is both send-up and love letter to the gladiators of small-town America.

Come the season one finale, there’s a sense of the absurd giving way to a near-mythic gridiron showdown. The South Georgia Catfish—never let it be said this show lacks subtlety in mascot design—stand on the precipice, with Chad/Russ just a fumbled secret away from disaster. Real SEC venues, genuine crowd noise (imagine filming a comedy while 60,000 fans try to spot the punchline), and a looming matchup against the Georgia Bulldogs, all lend a sweaty, lived-in legitimacy. According to Waldron, season two will unfold almost in real time. In other words, prepare for stakes to simmer while the inevitable unmasking hangs overhead like a disco ball in a Baptist church.

That’s the heart of this misfit saga, isn’t it? Not whether Russ/Chad scores the winning touchdown, but how long the American public can be hoodwinked by carefully curated illusions. A story so steeped in contemporary identity politics—where second acts and reinvention are less Gatsby and more grift—it’s a mirror Hollywood seems only too happy to hold up. Forget the well-lit locker rooms of yesteryear; this is the age of the artful dodge, the American Ruse, where everyone’s a quarterback, if not for their own team, then at least for their own narrative.

In the midst of 2025’s streaming sprawl, where inspirational sports comedies flow like confetti after a homecoming game, “Chad Powers” offers something not quite as easily digestible. It’s sharp, messy, occasionally uncomfortable, and hard to pin down. What’s more, it’s honest—a rare thing. Glen Powell’s transformation may leave the Academy’s makeup branch scratching their heads, but in the world of click-driven television? It’s already clutching its own kind of trophy.

So, for those who crave more than just the pastel gloss of feel-good stories—anyone willing to step into the chaos where redemption and spectacle collide—rest assured. The Catfish are coming back, the ruse lives on, and while most may wonder at the chaos, others will pop their popcorn and settle in. These days, who can resist watching a man hide in plain sight, helmet hair and all?

It’s tempting to think the wildest transformation on television in 2025 might involve yet another Oscar-winner slinking into dystopian garb, or perhaps a red-carpet darling floating through scenes draped in vintage Schiaparelli. Instead, the cultural conversation has veered into stranger territory: Glen Powell, of all people, buried beneath latex, mutton chops, and a borrowed SEC accent, playing a bumbling quarterback with enough bravado to power an entire college town’s worth of barbecue joints. Hulu’s “Chad Powers” isn’t just returning for a second season; it’s doubling down on a spectacle that’s somehow part underdog fairytale, part elaborate social experiment.Hard to imagine, perhaps, if you missed the first wave. For those still rattled by the sugar-rush aftertaste of “Ted Lasso,” “Chad Powers” is a far cry from wholesome pep talks and British biscuits. Powell’s Russ Holliday—a onetime Oregon quarterback thoroughly outfoxed by his own ego—crafts an audacious comeback plan: hide that chiseled baby face under a hood of synthetic hair, grunt like an oddball, and slip unnoticed onto an SEC roster as “Chad Powers.” It’s a charade that borders on performance art, if the performance were an existential crisis in cleats.For Hulu, which has lately made curious antiheroes and social media catnip something of a house specialty, the show couldn’t have come at a better time. The streamer’s announcement—delivered with its digital smirk—reads like pure fan service. Powell’s prosthetic odyssey will continue, and viewers can expect even more high-gloss trickery and hijinks in the coming season. Evidently, in the click-hungry arena of streaming, there’s no expiration date for watching one dubious mustache fool a nation devoted to tailgate grills and instant replays.Now, the show itself is something of a shape-shifter: part ESPN stunt, part baroque sports melodrama. The blueprint? Borrowed from Eli Manning’s infamous latex-swaddled infiltration of a college tryout—a prank so pointedly American it deserves its own Rockwell painting. Only, where Manning’s antics were a one-off, “Chad Powers” leans into the absurd, refusing to blink.Creative minds behind the curtain—Powell and Michael Waldron, yes, the same Waldron who scrambled the Marvel timeline with “Loki”—have produced a series that’s either a clever subversion or too clever by half, depending on which critic’s cocktail napkin you read. There are those who squint and see a smug echo of “Ted Lasso’s” heart. Others, especially over at The A.V. Club, seem less enthused, glancing at the script and declaring—rather ungenerously—that it’s “mean as shit without even having the decency to be funny about it.” Some find the show refreshing for precisely that edge. If “Ted Lasso” is the full-calorie sports drink, this is the off-brand, still-caffeinated fizz with a distinctly bitter afterkick.Yet, numbers do what numbers do: speak louder than a coach in a playoff locker room. Debuting autumn last, “Chad Powers” found itself circling Luminate’s Top 50 streamer chart, cruising from No. 34 to No. 19 in just a week—no small feat when half the streaming world is busy wrangling reboots and familiar IP. Evidently, prosthetic chins and implausible backstories still have an audience in 2025, especially if the algorithm feels lucky.Broadening the appeal is a cast that looks assembled from the wildest crossover event never pitched. Perry Mattfeld brings a touch of gravitas shaded with wry humor as Ricky. Quentin Plair handles Coach Byrd with the sort of authority that might actually inspire a team to sneak into the playoffs. Wynn Everett, Frankie A. Rodriguez, and the ever-adaptable Steve Zahn round out a roster that feels both eccentric and—crucially—not self-conscious about it. Each character, from locker room to endzone banter, is both send-up and love letter to the gladiators of small-town America.Come the season one finale, there’s a sense of the absurd giving way to a near-mythic gridiron showdown. The South Georgia Catfish—never let it be said this show lacks subtlety in mascot design—stand on the precipice, with Chad/Russ just a fumbled secret away from disaster. Real SEC venues, genuine crowd noise (imagine filming a comedy while 60,000 fans try to spot the punchline), and a looming matchup against the Georgia Bulldogs, all lend a sweaty, lived-in legitimacy. According to Waldron, season two will unfold almost in real time. In other words, prepare for stakes to simmer while the inevitable unmasking hangs overhead like a disco ball in a Baptist church.That’s the heart of this misfit saga, isn’t it? Not whether Russ/Chad scores the winning touchdown, but how long the American public can be hoodwinked by carefully curated illusions. A story so steeped in contemporary identity politics—where second acts and reinvention are less Gatsby and more grift—it’s a mirror Hollywood seems only too happy to hold up. Forget the well-lit locker rooms of yesteryear; this is the age of the artful dodge, the American Ruse, where everyone’s a quarterback, if not for their own team, then at least for their own narrative.In the midst of 2025’s streaming sprawl, where inspirational sports comedies flow like confetti after a homecoming game, “Chad Powers” offers something not quite as easily digestible. It’s sharp, messy, occasionally uncomfortable, and hard to pin down. What’s more, it’s honest—a rare thing. Glen Powell’s transformation may leave the Academy’s makeup branch scratching their heads, but in the world of click-driven television? It’s already clutching its own kind of trophy.So, for those who crave more than just the pastel gloss of feel-good stories—anyone willing to step into the chaos where redemption and spectacle collide—rest assured. The Catfish are coming back, the ruse lives on, and while most may wonder at the chaos, others will pop their popcorn and settle in. These days, who can resist watching a man hide in plain sight, helmet hair and all?