Film Review: "My Mom Jayne"
In Mariska Hargitay's moving and poignant documentary, she sheds important light on her relationship with her late mother's life and legacy, in the process forcing us to re-evaluate Mansfield.
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My Mom Jayne is one of those films that’s been on my list ever since I saw its release date, both because I’m obviously a huge fan of Mariska Hargitay and also because I love documentaries about Hollywood stars. It’s no secret that Hargitay has long had a vexed relationship with her mother, particularly Mansfield’s “dumb blonde” persona that was key to her stardom. Adding to the complexity of Hargitay’s feelings are the fact that her mother died in a horrible car accident when she was only three. In fact, as My Mom Jayne reveals, it was only thanks to her older brother that Mariska herself survived the accident, since she was wedged under the seat and not initially rescued.
This documentary is filled with emotionally wrenching moments like these, in which both Hargitay and her brothers and sister grapple with their memories of their mother and her life both in front of and behind the camera. Watching her hug her siblings and speak openly and honestly with them about what they remember is deeply affecting, and there were many moments when I broke down into tears at the rawness of the feelings on display. There’s something particularly heartwrenching about their particular grief, which played out so publicly.
Hargitay makes it particularly clear that she has almost no memories of her mother. This is hardly surprising, given that she was only three at the time of Mansfield’s death and, aside from a few sensory memories and impressions, she has little upon which to base her feelings about the late Jayne. Instead, she has to rely on the memories of her brothers and sister–the latter of whom was Jayne Mansfield’s first child, with her first husband–as well as the voluminous publicity material that was the result of her mother’s life spent in the public eye. It’s refreshing, and at times a bit jarring, to hear Hargitay speak about the extent to which she has long sought to distance herself from her mother and the brand of stardom she represented.
After all, if there was anything Mansfield was known for it was for being one of the many “dumb blondes” that were all the rage in Hollywood in the 1950s and 1960s. Much like Marilyn Monroe, she was understood through this lens and was often dismissed, including by Hargitay herself. Given the rather reductive view of her mother by even her fans–many of whom would often reach out to a young Mariska–is it any wonder that she would go to such lengths to be a very different kind of star, both in terms of her public persona and in the types of roles she played? It’s hard to think of a role more different than the ones that Mansfield so often played than Olivia Benson.
As much as it’s about Mariska’s grappling with her mother’s legacy, it’s also about Mansfield herself. The documentary makes it abundantly clear that she wasn’t really the dumb blonde that she so often pretended to be on both stage and screen. In fact she was something of a virtuoso. Not only was she quite capable of playing in dramatic roles–though these were few and far between–but she could also play a number of instruments, including both the piano and the violin. She was also fiercely intelligent when she was at home, and so it’s no wonder that some in the industry snidely dubbed her “the smartest dumb blonde.” This is the very definition of a backhanded compliment.
In that sense, My Mom Jayne is a potent reminder of the double-edged sword that is Hollywood stardom. Yes, it certainly brings wealth and success and fame with it, but it also can become a prison. Mansfield, like Monroe before her, discovered to her chagrin that misogyny is a helluva drug, one that afflicted almost every man that she came into contact with, whether in front of or behind the camera. Some of the most difficult portions to watch are those in which we see male talk show hosts talk down to Mansfield as she attempts to talk seriously about her craft and her skills. Watching men–most of whom had only a fraction of her remarkable talent, if that–act as if she is nothing more than visual fodder and a source of misogynist jokes makes the blood boil, and so it’s easy to see why her younger daughter would want to distance herself from this. To Hargitay’s credit, however, she is forthright about her changing attitudes, particularly once she really starts to engage with the various documents and interviews that her mother left behind.
Even more heartbreaking, I think, is the fact that Mansfield, like so many other Hollywood stars, never really met the man who could give her what she so desperately wanted and needed. Thus it was that she had several relationships, none of which lasted and all of which left an impression, both negative and positive, on her children. Once again, it makes sense that Mariska would gravitate to Mickey, the man whom she regarded as her father and who was one of the cornerstones of her life.
The real bombshell occurs in the last third of the film, when Hargitay reveals that Mickey wasn’t her biological father. Instead, she is the daughter of Mansfield and the entertainer Nelson Sardelli, with whom she has a heartfelt discussion about why he didn’t come forward to speak to her about his paternity until she went to meet with him. It’s one of the most resonant parts of a very powerful and poignant documentary, and one can sense the peace of mind and soul that it gives Mariska Hargitay to connect with both her biological brother and her two half-sisters.
I loved this documentary so much. One can tell that Mariska Hargitay put her heart and soul into it, and I truly admire her willingness to be so raw and honest about her complicated feelings. I also love the way that the film forces us as viewers to rethink our own assumptions about the nature of classic Hollywood stardom and its aftermath. This is a must-see.