TV: Mafia women take on husbands' roles

By Fiona Rae

When Tony Soprano laments the loss of the old ways of the Mafia, you can bet the show's makers have been reading Clare Longrigg's book, Mafia Women.

Between 1990 and 1995, the number of women convicted of Mafia crimes rose from one to 89. The old image of Mob wives lurking behind a black veil is well and truly gone, as women step in to fill the gaps left by dwindling numbers of male bosses.

Tonight's documentary, Mafia Women (TV3, 8.30) is based on Longrigg's 1998 book and features a line-up of women you wouldn't take home to mama.

Most scary of those that would be interviewed is - shades of The Sopranos again - Carmela Giuliano, a Mafia bride who was taken from school by her husband Luigi, the Mob kingpin in Naples.

Carmela, apart from having particularly poor taste in wedding outfits, has been charged with extortion, kidnapping, drug trafficking. She has done time.

She claims that she is innocent, and that the police go after wives in an attempt to force husbands to collaborate.

She says, somewhat disingenuously, that it is annoying to be treated differently by the locals - they are not saying hello because they like her, but because they are afraid of her, and "there shouldn't be fear."

Probably the most interesting Mafia women are the ones who are not interviewed, such as Guiseppa Sansone, who used sign language during prison visits with her husband. It worked as long as the police were making only audio tapes, but they finally clicked that she was "discussing" Mafia business. Apparently, there are experts in Mafia signing.

Then there's one tough grandmother, Maria Serraino, who is in jail for life. She ran the family business in Milan until one of the largest undercover operations in Italian history put her away.

Involved in the Serraino family was young British woman Marisa Merico, Maria's granddaughter. She was arrested in the sleepy village of Poulton-le-Flyde, near Blackpool.

The innocent are represented, too - women who didn't know what they were marrying. One of them, Baroness Teresa Cordopatri, stood up to the local clan in Regio Calabria.

The clan wanted her ancestral land with its ancient olive trees. She was forced to abandon the estate in the 1970s and she and her brother were constantly threatened. The local townspeople, fearful themselves, didn't want to know her.

In 1991 her brother was gunned down - the baroness escaped only because the assassin's gun jammed. She eventually took her fight to court and won convictions, but even today no one will work for her.

In Philadelphia, April di Caprio grew up under Mob protection in her neighbourhood. She thought they were good guys because they looked out for people.

But after marrying Ron "Cuddles" di Caprio, who was working for the notorious Nicky Scarpo, her husband began to discuss murders in front of her and involve her in them.

The Mafia women who are filling their husbands' shoes have been credited with keeping the brutal show on the road. But if women can juggle careers, households, husbands and children, why should we be surprised they've added a spot of drug trafficking and extortion to the list?

It's certainly a future plotline The Sopranos writers must be considering: Tony gets jailed and Carmela takes over the business. Their daughter can help. They may have to find a new expression for "made guy" though.