In order to accomplish someone's idea of an acceptable running time, many porn projects often have the tendency to over-stay their welcome by employing a labored combination of padding, looping and more dead spots than is normally found in laboratory samples of a Hollywood starlet's brain tissue.  Windsong clocks in at a very modest 66 minutes; but rest assured every second of it is held accountable on the screen, with nearly every frame driven by a sense of composition rarely enjoyed in the porn venue.

One might argue that Windsong's one of the more erudite sex projects ever to come out of a camera.  If so, it certainly is as much a celebration of sight and sound as it is a mystical couples' romp into the New Age.  Crank up the volume and marvel at rhythms so haunting and gripping, so orchestrated to the cosmic marriage of heart palpitation and skin temperature, that you'd swear some scamp dropped mescaline in your Dr. Pepper and that you're beholding hardcore with some unimaginable, transcendental sense of awareness.

Simon Poe, whose lyrical editing bay skills have been the driving force in recent editions of Eurotique's Skin series, particularly Skin: Cuntrol, gets his first director's credit here.  And Poe makes the most of it in ways that draw enviable comparisons to the skills of an Andrew Blake or Michael Ninn. Some of the post production tweaks and certainly the latex costuming comes straight from a Ninn yard sale; and, had Poe gone the trés elegant circular staircase-Beverly Hills mansion route in the manner of Blake, you'd be retiring Andrew's number right now in tearful ceremonies at home plate in Dodger Stadium.  However, Poe didn't, and Windsong, in the final analysis, is comparatively modest in its schemes and intentions.  Perhaps that's the better way to go in an inaugural effort.  The shoot, for its entirety, is studio-bound, but this is where the gift of imagination takes over.  Poe has an obvious game plan with his props and his punch lines, and it's readily apparent at all times.  And, if nothing else, you'd certainly like to have Simon's lit-candle concession.

In the opening vignette, titled The Reunion, Zoë pines over a very bad Polaroid of, we are to assume, her dead lover Earl Slate.  Earl ain't dead; he's just been dating Jasmin St. Claire.  But for the purposes of the skit, Earl has passed to the great beyond, and Zoë has resurrected him in her mind.  Slate's reincarnation is real enough to the extent that you'll witness one of the truly great videomatic blowjobs and a blistering anal penetration that lends it a nod for a sex scene pre-nom -- the couples category, judging by its syrupy romantic inferences.

A majestic tiger then morphs into Kendra Jade as startled onlookers Tom Chapman and John Strong get her by the tail and do things that the human species wouldn't ordinarily do to tigers, including a wincing double-penetration.

The Masterpiece vignette can be fittingly described as an artistically weird, stand-alone accomplishment of striking proportions where the roving camera is as much a participant as the observer.  Lovely Sierra Knight mesmerizes both David Lee Roth look-alike Evan Stone and Delilah Page with her hypnotic third eye and whisks them to an S/M setpiece that recalls Mary Shelley's gothic rec room complete with ectoplasmic lighting, incongruous tribal rhythms, cock rings and dog collars.  In one of those esoteric fights of fancy that generally win you Best Editing nods, the succulent Page frenetically mounts a rubber peg as though she were auditioning for the Pony Express, while Knight gets her ass pummeled briskly and decisively by Stone, thus earning another definite pre-nom.

A mask-wearing Joelani then turns Kay London into a spasm-driven, brass bed whore (in a marvelous girl/girl exercise that might have been conceived by Rod Sterling) which then segues into a finale that could have been imagined by Howard Stern.  It features Stern favorite Houston, and as the scene unfurls, Houston is looking for someone.  Perhaps a live body to participate in the Houston 500.  Whichever.  Houston finds love on the rocks in the person of Herschel finds love on the rocks in the person of Herschel Savage, whose kinship with the underworld is pretty much a foregone conclusion by scene's end.