What does it mean to be mother? Not a mother, in a biological sense. Not the philosophical shaping of motherhood, as Hirokazu Kore-eda or Maggie Gyllenhaal would inquire. Nowadays, like a lot of slang, the term “mother” has been recirculated from drag culture and into Gen-Z, complimenting older women that emit a powerful aura. Five years ago, when someone were to mistakenly classify a woman as a mother, that woman might feel the need to don her Life Alert necklace and start preparing the slideshow that’ll play at her upcoming funeral. Amongst popular medical de-aging produces and the sort of oppositional acceptance of straight-girls-being-masc (I think of the Call Her Daddy podcast), being called mother is being the icon of the moment.
In learning a new word, one can’t unsee or hear its prevalence or rippling influence. Even if there isn’t a standardized definition for the term (though if I were to place a rule, mother status should represent and/or be supported by the alphabet community), we just know when someone is worthy of the word. For starters: M3GAN. Jennifer Coolidge. Rihanna at the Super Bowl (I’d argue it’s more from sponsoring her beauty line product in a blood-red jumpsuit than her being pregnant). And of course, Barbie, which is appearing to be the supreme mother movie of the year — though at that point, I fear that there will be a weary oversaturation (Will Ferrell’s “Please call me mother” on his character poster is nearing the tipping point for me). In between, we have Mafia Mamma: a culmination of talent that has been giving cinematic mother for years. Toni Collette? Say less. Catherine Hardwicke, the director who allowed teenage girls to be angry and lustful? Monica Bellucci? Please — the worst picks of her Getty Image gallery still conjures the epitome of the siren on screen.
Even by title, Mafia Mamma celebrates femininity in all fields. Collette plays Kristin, a mother whose son had just left for college discovers that her unemployed husband had been cheating on her. Distracted by the empty nest and soiled marriage, she ignores the persistent calls from Bianca (Bellucci), who urges her to come to Italy following the death of Kristin’s grandfather. In a very probable turn of events, Kristin finds that her grandfather’s winemaking business was a front for him heading the Balbona mafia. As direct bloodline, Kristin is to take over the family business, which might be even more pressing as they are in the midst of a bloodbath with the Romano family. With gentle guidance and Italian gesticulations, Bianca (the Balbonas’ trusted general) and bodyguards Dante and Aldo accompany Kristin as she faces newfound love, self-discovery, and the dark underbelly of international organized crime.
We might ask ourselves the big question: Is Mafia Mamma a good movie? It’s the sort of movie that has Under the Tuscan Sun on its vision board, splattered by the haunting pop culture premonitions of The Godfather at night. It centers around a woman undergoing The Lizzie McGuire Movie and Eat, Pray, Love simultaneously at both 14 and 40 years old. Mafia Mamma might mean everything to a woman who is going through something, and it might mean jackshit for most. As Hardwicke enters into her “be kind” era, the Paul Feig edge of nasty-woman humor by the way of The Heat is shushed here (there is a scene where Bianca asks if Kristin has farted in front of her new man, and I’m confusing its casualness with Belluci-instinctive sensuality). After learning of the mafia’s dirty profitable deeds, Kristin’s experience in pharma redirects the mafia to generate profit by importing medication and selling them at a cheaper price for people in need. She makes muffins for the other mafia bosses at meetings. Her guilt in accidentally killing two rival enemies is unmatched genuineness.
All of this is to say, it’s not a good movie. It’s not even a good bad movie. It simply exists as its own free being, skipping over identifiable markers of comedy or emotional bones to bare in order to hit the manufactured notes on time. At this time of writing, I’m misremembering the movie like a fever dream: the taste of limoncello and scrotum, Bianca’s prosthetic leg saving the day, Kristin wanting to get laid all the time (and I suppose in not giving context, I’ve done my due diligence of invoking some spirit of intrigue). But I guess it’s important to have this discussion. And by discussion, I mean the acknowledgement of the movie’s habitat in the periphery of “Can’t believe this was made!” It’s a bummer that it represents the downside of mother energy, but it’s like if I was scrolling through Instagram and saw a bunch of women drinking rosé on a yacht. I can complain that the double feature of alcohol-induced dehydration and the sunburn can be catastrophically damaging, but is that really a fun thing to say? Deep down, I know that they know they’re having the time of their lives.
Mafia Mamma
2023
dir. Catherine Hardwicke
101 min.
Opens Friday, 4/14 in theaters everywhere (though the Hassle recommends Apple Cinema or your locally owned multiplex)
