When Porn Tries to Sing—and Fails Miserably (Except for Kristine DeBell)
Once upon a time in 1976, someone snorted a rail of disco glitter, skimmed a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and said, “You know what this needs? Musical numbers and penetration.” Thus was born Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy, a film that attempts to thread the needle between Lewis Carroll’s whimsical surrealism and 1970s porn chic. It misses the mark so badly, you can hear the Queen of Hearts shouting, “Off with their heads!”—and not in a good way.
Let’s get this out of the way: this is not a good film. It’s not a good porn. It’s not a good musical. It’s the cinematic equivalent of trying to do a line dance in quicksand while naked and confused. But—and here comes the first and possibly only saving grace—Kristine DeBell.
Kristine DeBell: Grace in a Sea of Grease
She’s bright-eyed, dimpled, and radiates a kind of innocent charm that seems almost criminally out of place here. DeBell plays Alice as a sweet, curious girl-next-door with a gym membership and the acting chops of someone who accidentally wandered onto the wrong set but decided to stay out of sheer professionalism. It’s almost tragic. She deserves a real film. Or at the very least, a decent porn.
DeBell manages to hold the screen while surrounded by a cast of characters who look like they’ve just emerged from the backroom of a failed circus. She plays it mostly straight—an island of actual performance in a fog of leering double entendres, flaccid choreography, and limp gags (pun both intended and not earned).
Musical Numbers from the Bowels of Hell
Let’s talk about the songs. Because oh dear God, the songs. If you’ve ever wondered what it would sound like if Sesame Street and a Times Square peep show had a baby and that baby took up interpretive jazz-hands, welcome to Wonderland. You’ve got the Mad Hatter crooning like a discount lounge act, and the White Rabbit sounding like he just gargled vodka and self-loathing. The lyrics are written in horny limerick hell, the melodies feel like rejected Schoolhouse Rock drafts, and the dancing would make a high school production of Oklahoma! look like La La Land.
The Plot (And I Use That Word Generously)
The story is loosely—very loosely—based on Carroll’s classic, only instead of a rabbit hole, Alice falls into a world full of naked weirdos singing about their private parts. She gets kissed, groped, teased, and eventually does the deed with a series of increasingly cartoonish characters. There’s a talking door, a Cheshire Cat with the libido of a game show host, and a Caterpillar who looks like he sells drugs to Muppets.
The whole thing plays like a sex-ed video directed by Salvador Dalí after being slapped awake from a nap. There’s an attempt at whimsy, but it keeps tripping over its own platform boots and collapsing into groin-level slapstick. When it tries to be erotic, it’s just awkward. When it tries to be funny, it’s mortifying. And when it tries to be romantic, you can almost hear Lewis Carroll spinning in his grave fast enough to power the Eastern Seaboard.
Production Values: Dollar Store LSD
The sets look like someone bought every roll of aluminum foil and glitter glue from a failing craft store. The costumes—where they exist—range from dollar-bin Halloween to full-blown lunatic asylum theater. The camera work is passable in the way a motel bedspread is technically “cleaned.” And let’s not even get into the sound design, which is a fever dream of moans, gasps, and background music that sounds like an organist drunk on Robitussin.
Final Verdict: Don’t Follow This White Rabbit
There’s a strange little place in cult cinema history for Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy. Some may argue it’s part of a unique era when porn tried to be art. But let’s be honest—this isn’t Boogie Nights. This isn’t even Debbie Does Dallas. This is a novelty record left in the sun too long.
Kristine DeBell’s performance is the only thing keeping this film from being completely unwatchable. She brings sincerity, charisma, and an almost tragic level of effort to a project that treats “character development” like a venereal disease. Her scenes almost convince you you’re watching a real movie—until the Hatter starts singing again or someone pulls out a flute for foreplay.
One star—for DeBell alone.
Watch it only if you’re curious, nostalgic, or halfway through a bottle of something strong. Otherwise, leave Wonderland alone. Some rabbit holes aren’t meant to be explored.
