Mafia Mamma

A feminist action-comedy punctuated by the occasional severed human appendage, Mafia Mamma gets commendable marks for its high concept: Mild-mannered suburban mom Kristin Balbano (the incomparable Collette) – married to a philandering man-child, stuck in a sexist work environment at a pharmaceutical company, and distressed by the recent departure of her only son to college – discovers her self-worth when she improbably dons the mantle of Italian mob boss after the death of her mafioso grandfather. Capiche?

While the specifics of this novel premise of middle-aged female empowerment set in the gorgeous Calabrian region of Italy are challenging enough on their own, their execution is further complicated by a vacillating tone that indiscriminately samples satire, romance, gallows humor, and feel-good entertainment (among other things) in a rat-a-tat-tat gangster setting of murderous mayhem. It’s like someone’s always turning the knob in one direction, and then in another in Mafia Mamma, rarely settling on any mood with clear reception. It can be a frustrating farrago.

There are some worthy laughs early on, but screenwriters Michael J. Feldman and Debbie Jhoon have a bad habit of working the best of them to death, like the tiring running joke about how the Italian mobsters are scandalized by the fact that Kristin has never seen The Godfather. (Clemenza’s cannoli makes a cheeky guest appearance here.) Fortunately, the gags don’t dumbly spoof Coppola’s masterwork like those cringeworthy Cosa Nostra pasticcios from 20 or 30 years ago that deserve to sleep with the fishes. The movie has the sheen of class, and the peppy playlist, featuring sublime cuts like “Il primo whisky,” gives it an infectious kick.

But those attributes can’t disguise how the script shortchanges Kristin’s evolution into a badass crime boss deserving the rispetto of her criminal peers. You don’t buy it, even if it’s supposed to play ironically. She more or less stumbles into this authority, her lethal moves to exert power more accidental than cold-blooded, the exception being when she gruesomely kills a would-be rapist/assassin in a homicidal rage by using the spiked heels of her Manolo Blahniks to pop an eyeball and stab his testicles. Even more so, the film’s seemingly obligatory celebration of the good things Kristin ultimately accomplishes because she’s a mensch at heart is badly rushed, largely reduced to a squishy montage of winemaking and prescription drug dispersals that compresses time in the service of ending things on an upbeat note.

But even if the character had turned into a distaff version of Sam Giancana, what’s not to like when this Donna Corleone is played by Collette (who also serves as the film’s producer)? She can make just about anything tolerable. Calling an actor “relatable” might sound condescending, but Collette has a knack for making normalcy special. Here, her everywoman character’s desire to break free from her put-upon life of subservience to others’ needs and expectations gives the actor license to smile, and smile big. It lifts the movie higher than it otherwise would go. Brava, Ms. Collette. Brava.