Well now, down in that dim little corner of 1972 where shag carpets and cigarette smoke met low-budget cinema, there was a film—if we dare call it that—by the name I Dismember Mama. A title with all the grace of a hatchet in a birthday cake.
The story—or the loose collection of scenes pretending to be one—follows poor Albert, a man fresh out of a mental institution who’s got more mother issues than a Tennessee Williams character. After deciding that therapy isn’t quite cutting it, he embarks on a not-so-charming spree of murderous self-help.
Between rambling monologues, wildly inconsistent lighting, and a tone that swings like a mood ring at a funeral, Albert ends up befriending (in the loosest sense of the word) a young girl, and well… let’s just say the film tries to tiptoe toward tenderness but ends up belly-flopping into the shallow end of uncomfortable.
It’s not quite horror, not quite drama, and not quite coherent—but it’s exactly the sort of cinematic misadventure that The Turkish Diplomats Present Charming Noise was born to dissect. If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Norman Bates had access to a lava lamp and a six-pack of Schlitz, this one’s for you.
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