Not The Godmother: Fresh Kills

A dark, imposing silhouette of a large man slowly emerges out of the darkness. This meeting is taking place in the damp, dank office under a salon or a bar or a construction office- only one will walk back out onto the street, and the other will continue to be a very rich man. The air is thick with cigar smoke, brown liquor hangs around every breath. The gold and diamond jewelry is thick, almost as thick as the Jersey accents- the tracksuits are velour and the words are carefully chosen. 

At least, that’s how I imagine it.

Since The Black Hand in 1906, Hollywood has had a great love for the mobster movie. The Great Depression was the ideal breeding ground for films of this genre- the glorification of gratuitous violence and unfiltered greed was perfectly representative of the fears of Americans at the time; classic values were degrading, soon the country would turn into a financial jungle where you take what you can get and you don’t stop to think about what you had to do to get it. The 1970s saw a resurgence of the mafia film with the release of The Godfather, so successful in its ability to captivate audiences with a world so different from their own- happening right underneath their noses. Finally, in the early 2000s, The Sopranos ushered in the genre for the new decade- inspiring many TV series to follow and cementing the mob permanently as a fascination that transcends era; America’s reasons for its adoration have changed slightly, but the feeling persists. However, it doesn’t take a very close watch of any of these stories to notice something so critical to their central thesis is missing: the women. 

Sure, there are female characters in all of these, but their roles are so often understated and simplified. They are disallowed from any of the high-stakes dealings of the mafia- confined only to the violence catfights permit, and often littered around the real players in these dealings as symbols of wealth and power. The very heart and soul of the mafia film is the concept of family, more specifically, an undying allegiance and lifelong promise to it, so the lack of women in major positions has always seemed odd to me. Wives and daughters are integral parts of the families that mafiosos often claim they do all that they do for, so why do we never get to hear from them? In 2023, Jennifer Esposito answered that question.

In her film Fresh Kills the underbelly of the underbelly sees the light of day, in all its hyper-saturated and neon color. Yes, there is a hulking patriarch making phone calls in whispered tones, walking in the front door at 2 am covered in blood from a “bar fight”, and disappearing on business trips for weeks at a time, but he is not the focus of the lens this time around. Instead, we watch the lives of his wife, Francine (portrayed by Esposito herself), and her two daughters, Rose and Connie, as they try to navigate this life they’ve found themselves living. To be born a Larusso is to die a Larusso, and every discovery, every overheard word, is more evidence that the latter is fast approaching. 

To be the wife of the don is not an easy task, and it’s one she does with a sense of manufactured pride- desperately trying to convince herself that this is the man she loves. Whether via screaming matches or expensive clothes, there is a nauseating, transactional aspect to their relationship; marriage is a fact of life neither of them can escape, and they both contribute what they feel they are obliged to. The husband brings the money and the family name, and the wife brings her beauty and fealty. This stereotype is not by any means exclusive to the mafia genre, but to exist within it adds another layer of necessity to this charade; this isn’t just a game of love, it’s one of life and death. A buy-in into this family is permanent and irreversible, and survival means acceptance.

The position of the daughter is not an easy one either. Rose and Connie grapple with the reverence they feel for their father while the evidence gathers that he is not who he claims to be. In the words unsaid by girls clad in plaid skirts are rumors whispered across church pews; accusations of involvement, of a genetic kind of evil. Connie learns to cope by yelling fighting words through over-lined lips, begging someone to try her, to see how distilled this anger can become, and how often it finds itself materialized as a fist to the face. Rose, on the other hand, opts to live in a kind of stunned silence, just as afraid of what she’s overheard and accidentally seen as what she knows lurks right around the corner. As sisters, they are completely reliant on each other, they raised each other in the ways their mother was never able while simultaneously hardening each other up just enough to survive. 

As a whole, Fresh Kills gives a voice to all the women standing behind the mystery and intrigue of the mafia man, allowing them to tell their own story, out of his shadow. The story is not a happy one, the ending is not a triumph over the system they are wrapped up in; it’s honest. It doesn’t attempt to give these women any different treatment than in films of the past, rather just allowing the camera to linger on them after the big fight that leaves the mafioso storming out the door and into the night. There is no sterilization of the struggle, no special kindness to the Larusso women- just the story of the lives just off center to the objects of our real fascination, no less bloody or violent, just in their own special way.

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