In the '80s, if you had nothing but loose change in your pocket and wanted to make a film, you had to make do with what you had to hand: a camcorder, friends and family for the cast, and a pair of video recorders so that you could edit tape-to-tape, resulting in a loss of sound and picture quality. Most people who shot such movies had the decency to restrict showings of their 'art' to their nearest and dearest, but somehow, a few managed to get their home-made travesties out to a wider audience. One such auteur was Chester N. Turner, whose work is unique, if nothing else.
Tales From The Quadead Zone is Chester's attempt at a horror anthology (if two stories count as such), shot on a negligible budget, with an amateur cast, a risible script, pitiful special effects, and a plinkety, plonkety Casio organ soundtrack guaranteed to grate on the nerves.
After ugly opening credits featuring amateurish drawings by the film's star Shirley L. Jones, the stories begin as a mother (Jones, sporting an extremely nasty hairdo and huge glasses) reads to her ghostly son from a book titled Tales From The Quadead Zone...
The first tale, Food for ?, sees a poverty stricken family of eight, with only enough food for four, resorting to a game of 'fastest gets to eat' at mealtimes. Eventually, one of the sons, a fat guy in dungarees, snaps and shoots several of his siblings, leaving enough grub for those left alive. The story ends with the killer given the death sentence (executed in the 'state gas chair') and his parents 'living high on the hog in witness protection program'. Everything about this tale stinks, from the script, to the acting, to the music, to the editing -- but at least it is mercifully short.
The second story is even worse, and lasts a whole lot longer. 'The Brothers' stars Keefe L. Turner as Ted, who has planned to kill his older brother Fred for stealing his wife and driving her to commit suicide. However, before Ted can carry out his dastardly deed, big bro' suffers a fatal heart attack. Still thirsting for revenge, Ted steals Fred's body from the morgue and, in an interminable monologue, tells the corpse exactly what he thinks of him, before humiliating the stiff by dressing it up as a clown and digging a grave for it in the basement. This diabolical scheme has Ted in stitches (although Turner's incessant, insufferable howling is no laughing matter for the viewer). Fred doesn't see the funny side, however, and returns from the dead to stick a pitchfork in Ted's guts.
Having finished these two dreadful tales from the Quadead Zone, the mother changes her eye-wear for an equally huge pair before answering the door to her estranged husband, who proceeds to knock her about for reading to their dead son. The woman fights back, eventually stabbing her angry spouse with a knife. Bleeding to death, the husband calls the police, who arrive to find his body in the kitchen. His wife is arrested, but allowed to visit the bathroom before being carted away, where she reminisces about her son Bobby (flashbacks featuring even bigger spectacles), before slashing her throat with a razor blade. Twenty-one hours later, her spirit is reunited with her son (via some truly awful special effects), and the storytelling continues.
Inept in almost every way imaginable, Tales From The Quadead Zone has to be of the worst examples of home-made horror that I have seen. However, in an attempt to find something nice to say about the film, I did find Bobby's whispering ghost voice rather eerie (although the real horror is definitely that hair and those glasses).