Tales From The Quadead Zone is Chester N. Turner’s second and final dig into self-released SOV sludge. Following up the exhausting-yet-hilarious filth of Black Devil Doll From Hell (1984), Turner and friends honed the skillz, cut the sex, and unwittingly churned out the greatest SOV trash film of all time. No exceptions. Logic, be it godly or mortal, has gone missing during Quadead’s 62 deranged minutes. Therefore, we must be prepared for anything. Don’t knock ‘em for the plastic Casiotone; take heed of the ceramic titty-mug. In the mind of Chester Turner, these things may be the substance of life.

Rules of language, structure, and general awareness have no business in the Quadead Zone. It’s a tight package of non-stop fantasmo delirium. People speak in tongues that escape the radar of historical linguists. Chester Turner’s homemade score (some of which is recycled from Black Devil Doll) drowns out everything at all times. Hilarity forces you to pause for breath before disturbing grit-gore pummels you into submission. Surprises hide beneath every plastic covered couch and dirt floor basement.

The novelty of 1980s SOV trash films lies in their associative, regional-vérité qualities; real people making movies on their own terms and having fun. Simple. Admirable. Quadead looks real enough, and that’s the stinger. The structure and technical decisions in the film are so unbelievable that Turner and company had to be either “touched” or oblivious in their manic creativity. In other words, splash cold water on your face — this is really happening. When that mindset hits, the film is elevated above the expected SOV expectations; Tales From The Quadead Zone is incredibly effective with its bad decisions and equally defective. The original intent will baffle to no end, but one thing’s for sure: This is an experience that can never be replicated, repeated, or equaled. The theme song cinches it.  [Joseph A. Ziemba, Bleeding Skull]