1963’s House of the Damned tells the story of an isolated mansion. It’s a place that many people have tried to live in but no one has ever been willing to stick around for too long. There are rumors that the mansion is haunted. In fact, you could even make the claim that the mansion is a house of the damned! Of course, we all know that there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?
Joseph Schiller (Richard Crane), the new owner of the mansion, calls architect Scott Campbell (Rob Foster) and tells him to go up to the house and check the place out. Scott points out that he was planning on celebrating his anniversary with his wife, Nancy (Merry Anders). Joseph say that there is no better way to celebrate an anniversary than to visit a house that might be haunted. Scott and Nancy (who is amazingly understanding) head for the house, where all sorts of strange things happen.
What type of strange things? Keys disappear. There are weird noises. Sometimes, it seems like something or someone might be lurking in the shadows. Could the house be haunted? While Scott and Nancy try to figure out what’s going on, Joseph shows up with his wife, Loy (Erika Peters). When Loy disappears, it becomes obvious that something is happening in the house of the damned!
House of the Damned is a briskly paced and occasionally effective haunted house story. It was directed by Maury Dexter, who was a director who was so fast and so capable of stretching a low budget that, at his best, he gave Roger Corman a run for his money. House of the Damned is only 63 minutes long and the film’s story isn’t particularly complex but Dexter still manages to create a properly ominous atmosphere and he does keep you guessing as to whether or not the house is actually haunted. The house itself was the former estate of infamous gangster Bugsy Siegel. Dexter reportedly spent ten days filming the movie at the Spiegel estate. Hopefully, he was not bothered by Bugsy’s ghost.
None of the characters are particularly well-developed but they are well-cast and the actors are all likable. The best performance comes from Erika Peters, who plays Loy as being slightly self-absorbed but ultimately good-hearted. She also gets to wear a bathing suit that is simply to die for. This film also features a very early performance from the great Richard Kiel, playing “The Giant.” It’s always nice to see Richard Kiel in a movie. Shortly before he passed away in 2014, Kiel visited my Alamo Drafthouse for a showing of The Spy Who Loved Me. Though it was obvious that he wasn’t in great health, he still took time to answer questions and to show off a rather charming smile. When a certain redhead told him that she loved him in a beloved 90s golf comedy, he smiled and said, “I believe that jacket belongs to Mr. Gilmore.”
House of the Damned was a nice surprise. We need more 62-minute films.
Private Lessons is that kind of early ’80s sex comedy that feels like a time capsule from when movies could get away with stuff that would never fly today. It’s got this awkward charm mixed with some seriously questionable choices, centering on a horny teenager named Philly who gets schooled in the ways of love by his family’s sultry French housekeeper. The film tries to play it all for laughs and titillation, but it lands somewhere between guilty pleasure and uncomfortable relic.
Philly, played by Eric Brown, is your classic 15-year-old rich kid left home alone for the summer in a sprawling Albuquerque mansion while his dad jets off on business. Dad hires Nicole, this alluring European housekeeper portrayed by Sylvia Kristel—yeah, the Emmanuelle star herself—to keep an eye on things, along with the sleazy chauffeur Lester, brought to life by Howard Hesseman in full sleazeball mode. From the jump, Philly’s got a massive crush on Nicole; he’s peeping through keyholes and fumbling over his words whenever she’s around. It’s all very American Pie before American Pie existed, but with a Euro-sex vibe courtesy of Kristel’s effortless sensuality. She catches him spying one night, strips down without a care, and invites him to touch—Philly bolts like his pants are on fire. You can’t help but chuckle at his panic; Brown’s wide-eyed innocence sells it without overplaying the hand.
The setup builds slowly, which is both a strength and a drag. Philly spills the beans to his buddy Sherman, played with manic energy by Patrick Piccininni, who turns every conversation into a roast session about Philly’s virginity. Their banter is some of the film’s highlights—raw, boyish ribbing that feels authentic to awkward teen friendships. Nicole keeps pushing the envelope: a steamy makeout in a dark movie theater, a goodnight kiss that nearly melts the screen, and finally, a fancy French dinner date where they seal the deal back home. Kristel owns these scenes; her Nicole isn’t just a seductress, she’s got this playful confidence that makes the slow seduction believable. The sex scene itself is tame by today’s standards—soft-focus, lots of sighs—but it’s handled with a wink, pretending to be shocking while delivering the era’s softcore goods.
But here’s where Private Lessons swerves into darker territory and kinda loses its footing. Midway through their romp, Nicole fakes a heart attack and “dies” right on top of Philly. Freaked out, he confesses to Lester, who smells opportunity. Turns out, the chauffeur’s been blackmailing Nicole over her immigration status and hatches a scheme to pin her “murder” on Philly, forcing the kid to cough up a chunk of his trust fund to cover it up. They bury a dummy in the desert, and Lester plays the concerned adult while pocketing the cash. It’s a twist that amps up the stakes, but it also shifts the tone from fluffy comedy to something creepier, leaning hard into moral panic territory. Hesseman chews the scenery as Lester, all smarmy grins and side-eye; he’s the perfect villain you love to hate, but the plot machinations feel forced, like the writers ran out of seduction gags and needed conflict.
Nicole, developing real feelings for Philly amid the con, has a change of heart and spills the truth. Together, they rope in Philly’s tennis coach—Ed Begley Jr. in a quick but fun bit—to impersonate a cop and scare Lester straight. The bad guy panics, gets nabbed trying to flee with the money, and everyone agrees to a truce: no one rats anyone out. Nicole’s “child molestation” (the film’s own loaded term for her role in seducing a minor) and immigration issues stay buried, Lester technically keeps his job, and Nicole splits before Dad returns. It’s a tidy wrap-up that dodges real consequences, which fits the film’s escapist fantasy but leaves a sour taste ethically. The romance fizzles without much payoff; you half-expect a heartfelt goodbye, but it’s more pragmatic than emotional.
Tonally, Private Lessons is all over the map. The first half thrives on its lighthearted horniness—Philly’s fumbling advances, Nicole’s teasing allure, and a very of-its-time soundtrack that pumps up the montages. It’s got that innocent raunchiness of films like Porky’s, where sex is the big mystery and everyone’s in on the joke. Brown holds his own as the lead; at 15, he’s convincingly flustered yet game, making Philly relatable rather than cartoonish. Kristel brings actual star power, turning what could be a one-note vixen into someone with hints of depth—her chemistry with Brown sparks genuine warmth amid the sleaze. Hesseman leans into Lester’s slimeball energy, turning every scene with him into a mix of funny and gross.
That said, the film’s not without flaws, and they’re glaring by modern eyes. The premise is straight-up predatory: a grown woman systematically grooming an underage boy, played for comedy without much self-awareness. It’s the male version of Lolita, but without any critique—instead of examining the situation, it just sort of grins and shrugs. The blackmail plot tries to add intrigue but mostly undermines the fun, turning Nicole from free spirit to reluctant crook. Pacing drags in spots; the relatively short runtime still feels stretched when the seduction stalls so the script can set up the con. And the ending? It papers over everything with a shrug, letting all parties walk free like it’s no big deal. The whole thing feels very much like a product of a moment when taboo could be turned into box-office bait without much pushback.
Visually, it’s a product of its time: glossy ’80s cinematography, plenty of skin but no hardcore edge, and that mansion setting screaming wealth fantasy. Director Alan Myerson keeps it breezy, never letting the comedy get too mean-spirited until Lester’s scheme really kicks in. The score and song choices nail the vibe—upbeat for the flirtations, a bit more tense for the con, always keeping things light even when the story goes to shadier places. It very much feels like something that would play late at night on cable and stick in your memory more as a vibe than as a fully coherent film.
Does it hold up? Kind of, if you’re in a nostalgic mood or digging for ’80s cheese. It’s honest about teen lust without being judgmental, and the performances carry the silly plot. But the power imbalance and the underage angle make it tough to fully endorse—watch with that lens, and it’s more cringe than chuckle. Still, for what it is—a raunchy romp with a surprisingly soft center—Private Lessons delivers just enough to warrant a spin on a bored night. Eric Brown and Sylvia Kristel do a lot of heavy lifting; without their chemistry, this would be forgettable smut instead of a strangely endearing, if deeply problematic, relic. If you’re into retro sex comedies like My Tutor or Zapped!, this one sits comfortably in that same dusty corner of the genre, flaws and all, as a snapshot of looser times that’s best taken with a big grain of salt.
I always enjoy it when a film opens with a message statement that announces that it was made to shine the light on one of “today’s most controversial subjects.” Even better is when that message statement states that the film could be my story or that it could serve as a warning to people like me about what might happen.
Of course, it’s too late for me to be warned. I’m not in high school anymore. I’ve already made my decisions and had to deal with the consequences of my mistakes and all the other melodrama that makes life interesting. But I can watch a film like 1959’s The Diary Of A High School Bride and I can read the message statement at the beginning and I can think to myself, “If only I had seen this movie before I decided to sneak out that night and drink alcohol or smoke weed or let my boyfriend take pictures of me naked or have sex with a married man or rob a convenience store or read that forbidden book or become a bride of Cthulhu or agree to spy for the communists or whatever the Hell it was that I did that night!” If only…
Actually, it probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Life doesn’t come with a message statement and whenever I see one at the beginning of a film, it usually makes me less likely to take that film seriously. In fact, I tend to seek out films the open with message statements because they’re usually a lot of fun.
Take The Diary of a High School Bride, which is silly in a way that only an American International Pictures youth film could be. The film opens with 25 year-old law student Steve (Ron Foster) driving home from Las Vegas with his new wife, 17 year-old Judy (Anita Sands). When Steve gets pulled over by a police officer, Judy starts to tremble in terror. When the cops asks Judy how old she is, she lies that she’s 21 and then starts to cry. When the police officer asks if she’s really married to Steve, she wails, “Yes, and this record proves it!” At this point, she holds up a vinyl record.
However, a vinyl record is not the only thing that Judy has. She also has a teddy bear and oh my God, she literally carries that teddy bear with her everywhere! When she and Steve tell her parents, she has the teddy bear. When she wails at them, “AND NO — I’M NOT PREGNANT!,” she has the teddy bear. When she and Steve go out to a coffeehouse and listen to some pretty good flamenco music, Judy has that teddy bear. When they get back to Steve’s apartment and Judy finally see Steve with his shirt unbuttoned, Judy drops the teddy bear on the floor.
Why are Steve and Judy married? That’s never really made clear. They have absolutely nothing in common and Judy is so naive and so innocent that she spends most of the movie struggling to speak in coherent sentences. (And, of course, she also won’t let go of her teddy bear.) Steve, meanwhile — well, listen, when you’re 17, any man in his 20s is automatically attractive. But still, there’s something undeniably (and, judging from the film’s script, unintentionally) creepy about Steve’s marriage to Judy.
Anyway, when Judy goes back to school, she has to deal with people singing Here Comes The Bride at her. She also has to deal with her ex-boyfriend, Chuck (Chris Robinson). Chuck wants her back and soon, he’s harassing the newly married couple and making such a menace out of himself that the whole “She’s only 17!” thing gets forgotten about…
So, that’s Diary of a High School Bride. It’s a film that, if I had seen it when I was an out-of-control teenager, would have made absolutely no difference whatsoever. But, if you’re a fan of 1950s B-movies (and who isn’t!) and if you have a group of friends who like to be snarky while watching old movies (and who doesn’t!), you’ll probably enjoy The Diary of a High School Bride. At the very least, it features a fun little theme song from someone named Tony Casanova.
The Diary of a High School Bride was directed by Burt Topper and written by the poet Robert Lowell. (Okay, it was probably a different Robert Lowell…) It’s currently available on Netflix and it’s a lot of fun if you’re in the right snarky mood.
1963’s House of the Damned tells the story of an isolated mansion. It’s a place that many people have tried to live in but no one has ever been willing to stick around for too long. There are rumors that the mansion is haunted. In fact, you could even make the claim that the mansion is a house of the damned! Of course, we all know that there’s no such thing as ghosts, right?
