Scrap (2022)
The Mother Load
In a recent group chat, some colleagues declared film criticism to be an objective art form—claiming, in essence, that the moment a writer uses “I”, the piece becomes all about them instead of the movie at hand. And who wants to read that?
I understand this perspective, but I don’t buy it. It’s true that some critics, unfortunately, appear to have spent their formative years in the Harry Knowles School of Thousand-word Personal Preambles. But the alternative is a wall of impersonal summary followed by a verdict that may as well have been determined by “Fresh/Rotten” roulette. In an age when tens of thousands of reviews, tweets, think pieces, and vlogs emerge to cover each new release (and in which an embarrassing number of critics still wet themselves whenever the letters “A” and “I” show up in any context) a human perspective helps Reader connect with Writer This is the hard-fought middle ground, where academia meets lived experience, where head meets heart.
I don’t know Vivian Kerr, the writer/director/star of Scrap, but her feature debut carries the locomotive spirit of someone who broke free of Hollywood’s corporate objectivism. After a decade of trying to make it as an actress in Tinseltown by appearing in other people’s projects, Kerr got fed up and decided to (as Lloyd Kaufman would say) make her own damn movie.
She created a short (also called Scrap), in which she stars as Beth, an L.A. native trying to keep her brother (Rent star Anthony Rapp) from finding out that she’s unemployed and homeless. Encouraged by the experience, Kerr expanded Beth’s story into one of the decade’s most honest, inspiring, and engaging films.
On the surface, this is another in a very long line of “Female Empowerment Movies”. That term’s in quotes because such pictures are often less than flattering to the women at their centers–films whose idea of “empowerment” involves turning women into the worst versions of men: bed-hopping, substance-abusing, power-hungry sociopaths who would do anything to avoid traditionalism (or, God forbid, the ultimate Fate Worse Than Death: domesticity). I’m no believer in “Barefoot and Pregnant”, but I rarely see movies about the mothers I know in real life, whose power derives from balancing the ambitions of youth with the self-sacrifice (and indescribable joy) of parenthood–those whose version of “having it all” is community and contentment over C suites and cocktails.
What sets Scrap apart is Kerr’s insistence that Beth protect her young daughter, Birdy (Julianna Layne), in every manner and at all costs. The film opens with Beth waking up from what appears to be a deep sleep in a comfortable bed. Turns out she’s spent yet another night in the back seat of her mini-SUV, whose every compartment has become a makeshift drawer/closet. Birdy is staying with brother Ben (Rapp) and his wife, Stacy (Lana Parrilla), a successful sci/fi fantasy author and a high-powered attorney, respectively. What was supposed to be a week-long arrangement while Beth was “out of town on business” has crept further and further out as the job search hamster wheel spins fruitlessly on. Beth avoids calls from creditors, her cut-and-run ex (Birdy’s dad, Josh, played by Brad Schmidt), and the head of Birdy’s private school, who’s still waiting for the latest tuition check.
Beth has erected the walls of Fort Birdy on a solid foundation of lies–leaving her, the struggling mother, with a prideful inability to tell anyone the truth about anything, at any time, especially herself. She maintains a public facade of overconfidence, sarcasm, and spending habits that suggest the affluence of her former PR exec job, instead of a wallet stuffed with maxed-out credit cards.
The biggest downside of Beth’s avoidance is denying herself a deeper connection with Ben. His life’s fabulous curb appeal belies two very heavy burdens pushing against the other side of the door: He and Stacy have been trying to get pregnant for a very long time, and none of the serums, specialists, or tips in Ben’s overflowing nerd binder are at all helpful. Also, Ben struggles to sign a three-book contract. Though his first two novels were monstrous successes, he really wants his publisher to put out his passion project (a Billie Holiday biography) next.
To some, these may seem like the first-iest of first-world problems. But Kerr delivers a three-dimensional portrait of a couple shackled by handcuffs that, while golden, are just as oppressive for them as Beth’s battles are for her. Sadly, everyone’s quiet desperation prevents them from leaning on one another and moving forward.
All of this, I’m sure, paints Scrap as the year’s most depressing film. Though an insight-heavy current of drama fuels the story, Kerr is just as invested in the comedy of relatability (with a steaming side of cringe). Between Ben’s love/hate relationship with his Orc-obsessed readership (“These people make me wanna drink cough syrup.”); Beth’s inability to fill out an online job application without sidestepping to scroll Amazon; or the unflappable good vibes from Marcus (Khleo Thomas), a roller rink employee with a crush on Beth—Scrap overflows with the nuisances, distractions, and blessings in disguise that sometimes make capital-A Avoidance an alluring alternative to confronting life.
Based solely on her debut, I can selfishly and unabashedly celebrate the fact that the first draft of Kerr’s Hollywood dream didn’t pan out. Otherwise, I might have missed out on an indie film whose production looks Studio Boutique Label-slick; whose script is sharper and more emotionally intelligent than pretty much anything up for awards this year; and whose cast (be they bigger stars, newcomers, or “I’ve seen them somewhere” character actors) each bring authenticity to situations both farcical and profound. All of this rests on Kerr’s shoulders as creator, showrunner, and star; she lives inside Beth as an avatar of the Fake New Century American: dripping with debt, fearful of the one-paycheck difference between viability and tent city; and afraid that at any moment someone will peek behind the meticulously applied digital smile to discover they’re one bad relationship or declined transaction away from jumping off a bridge.
Luckily for Beth, her big “Why” is cute little Birdy, and she’ll do anything to reinforce those barriers of normalcy. Whether it’s taking a chance on reconnecting with unreliable Josh; leaving the creature comforts of Ben and Stacy’s home, at which she’s overstayed her tentative welcome; or saying goodbye to her “accustomed” lifestyle and starting over on the retail rung–there is no plan Beth won’t entertain if it means giving her daughter everything. The hardest lesson, of course, is that “everything” includes the best version of herself–which begins with a stand-up-and-cheer moment of honesty during a job interview.
Vivian Kerr could have spent another decade hoping to land a cushier belt on the Hollywood assembly line, but she took a risk. She put in the soul-searching, ego-crushing work of creating something that could only be expressed in her voice–which, ironically, tapped into themes that transcend race, gender, and circumstance. Scrap is her soapbox, from which she implores us all to demand a starring role in our own lives.
Scrap is now streaming on Apple TV+.
