Acting is to a Bruce Seven feature what Clint Eastwood's nose is to Bill Clinton's face.

Those seeking emotional pathos, bathos, athos, porthos and aramis need not apply. Then, again, considering the voluble ass spreading-fucking-physical context of his shows, Meryl Streep-level emoting would tend to be seriously suspect among the faithful Sevenarati, anyway.

Seven, the Gabby Hayes of adult video, teams again with director Bionca for another Socratis exchange reminiscent of an old Leo Gorcey movie. Like some reedy fairy godfather, Seven keeps yammering about making wishes come true. Anal wishes, to be more precise. Which is a shame because I'm wishing for a new car and was hoping Bruce would read this fine review and wave his magic baton.

Kristi Lynn bats leadoff, but her baptisma font-shaped ass is the clean-up hitter in any anal lineup. Kristi dances (as if this is a surprising development for a Bruce Seven/Bionca collaborations) and gets ersatz fucked in the butt big time by Sarah Jane Hamilton, first with a dildo that looks like a Howitzer shell, then with a strap-on. Quicker than you can say, "pluck your magic twanger, Froggy," Sarah Jane is dolled up in a leather tails/motorcycle cap outfit that makes her look like a cross between Fred Astaire and Marlon Brando. "Waitress" Sarah Jane lights panatellas and pours the bubbly for Sean Michaels, Blake Palmer and Jake Williams, then she answers the musical question: how many cigars does it take to stuff an anal humidor?

Seven, ever Hemingwayesque in his terse acknowledgments, tells everyone in the mini-anal gangbang, "that was real good." Maybe a free-fall ass fucking from the World Trade Center would elicit a grudging VERY good from Bruce.

Rebecca Bardoux drops by to dance (naturally) and parade her ass (naturally) in what starts out as a girls night-out situation with Barbara Doll and Careena Collins. Fortunately for the viewer, Jon Dough and Marc Wallice relinquish their roles as passive jerking off manequins to take part in an anal equation that factors out to two phenomenal butt fucks. Judging by the length of his stay in the pigeon cooing (I'm not kidding, this is what she sounds like) Collins' asshole, Dough is all but ready to move in his furniture and sign a lease, or to create a new drink — a Jon Collins.

Barbara Doll, on the other side of the room, assists in positioning Rebecca's asshole over Wallice's awaiting stem. Rebecca's breathless: "Oh my God!! There is it!" pretty much tells the story of this encounter. The Collins/Dough scene rates the edge, however, because not only does Dough fuck her in the ass like an oil rig out of control and come in her butthole, he's hard enough to shove it back in and start all over again. Incredible.

Can the power-stemmed Heather St. Clair possibly top this act? Well, she at least matches it, and incredibly so. Heather offers her suppliant ass to Bionca who shapes her hands like the wings of a harrier jet and takes her eight fingers and knuckles on a non-stop flight to Heather's inner regions of sodomitic splendor. It's oily, it's messy, and a robust unapologetic paean to space-age depravity. But, lest you think St. Clair retires on her laurels, think again. A warehouse scene finds her getting it up the ass again and again from the ebony team of Sean Michaels, Julian St. Jox, Mr. Marcus and Jimmy Zee.

In the September issue when I touted Bionca's efforts in Takin' It To The Limit as virtually the hottest thing I had seen all year, it seemed a pretty safe bet that its sexual material had a certain untouchable status. Along comes Takin' It To The Limit 2 which, I believe in some respects, blows the first feature to smithereens.

Does it, then, rate perfect status? No, simply because someone, somewhere will match the heat to storyline to acting to beautiful locations. But for the time being, Seven/Bionca offer the best parlor trick to be found in the business. Question is, can they top this achievement? The dirty old man in me certainly hopes so.