Gaga for the All-Girl Gala? Photographger Keana Moire, who looks a little like a Czech Chelsea Handler with her hair stretched into a ponytail, fashions her on-screen persona as a hip, modern woman. She has her pulse on today's porn enthusiast and her finger in the cunts of her costars. But Girl Girl Studio 6: The Casting is less about sex than it is about open-minded European ideals and unconventional relationships that are molded by them.

Keana Moire is on the lookout for future stars of her film series, and the first actress to catch Moire's eye is Carol. As the film emerges from the opening credits, they're paired up on a couch. Moire's garbles her opening monologue by asking Carol, "How do you know my movie?" with her stumbling broken English. "Yeah, I saw your movie. I'd like to be there," Carol responds.

Moire, who is blonde, skinny and Czech, descends on Carol, who is blonde, skinny and Czech, unbuttoning her shirt, then commenting on the uniqueness of Carol. She has, unlike most actress in the series, "big tits." If the heavy accents were not an automatic indication to its foreign origin, the fact that women are being cast because of their insignificant bra size should be. In America, women are given waitressing jobs based on their huge bust. Not so there. It's all like a Yakov Smirnoff joke, "In Czech Republic, breasts lose jobs for you."

Carol, once free of all clothing materials except for her jeans, nibbles on Moire's twat, as Moire undauntedly smokes a cigarette, sipping in the gray clouds and exhaling in between short moan intervals. She expertly maneuvers the discarding ashes away from Carol's back, putting it out off screen only when the two women make a connection of the lips. It's all a very glamorous portrayal of cigarettes. It probably places those Truth ads back eight years.

Moire hikes up her rear, cruelly dangling it from Carol's face until she's unable to withhold her instincts. Once Carol submits to the derriere, Moire conveys abundantly more with her slight pried-open eyes rolling behind her sockets than most women in the business do by blatantly telling the camera about "How hot the fucking is making her."

Keana's acting techniques resemble her deceptively subtle, thin (smoking, doctors say, does curb appetite) shape that snarls and turns like silly putty, fitting flawlessly into any shape that her partner may be contorted. What bumps she's been denied naturally, she's made up for in her details-oriented cerebellum, which explains why she refrains from aiming the tripod at her chest and decides instead to participates in the encounter with her partner by gently brushing her long, flowing mane across Carol's tummy, tickling before consuming. The eating is a bit more biology class than is desired; Moire languishes after separating the folds, but quick angle changes alleviate boredom.

After all, if I wanted to masturbate to a woman's innards, I'd wank to an autopsy video.

Screeching pulsates, announcing the end of Carol and Moire's tryst. However, it doesn't signal closure between the couple. Moire kisses Carol, affirming an unspecified pact, the exploitation of the previous minutes eradicated.  She cares for her.

Keana Moire does what little others could in her position (which varies from moment to moment, but I digress): she relays respect for her fellow actresses. The lingering minutes after each scene provide care and comfort, a thank you for attending the taping.

It's as if she's a mother.

This sort of gratitude is shown not only to Carol, but the others, including Rose. As Rose's segment opens, Moire, whose motherly role is reprised, is fixing lunch for her expecting visitor. The doorbell echoes throughout the building, Moire dropping her silverware to attend to it. When she opens the door, Moire welcomes a drenched Rose, who has walked to her residence amid a downpour. The cinematography catches the rain cascading down the window pane, introducing a marred view of a streaked and soaked Rose.

She's cold, beaten by the elements.

Moire quickly ushers her inside, veering her into the shower, removing her of damped rags while a vibrant shade from the red walls squeezes them into the inviting warmth of the white stall. Intrigued by the suds and bubbles bursting off of Rose's similarly shaped figure (Rose is blonde, skinny and Czech), Moire approaches her from behind, pecking her shoulder. Reluctant, but ultimately reassured, Rose agrees to the washing of her back

Though still draped in their thong panties, the two bathe each others, the water dancing off of them, sliding through the crevasses and cracks of their beautifully built bodies, pooling out the length of their backs, and sinking finally into the drain. The two women, convinced that keeping their underpants on would only further be a nuisance, take turns displacing their thongs. Rose, who is now pressed against the wall, grows a few inches with the help of her tippy toes and meets Moire's curious fingering, which polish her vagina.  It's slippery with various liquids departing from various sources.

With eyelashes strung blue, skin glistening with a convincingly painted lining of blush, and women, even under the harshest of bright lights, incessantly and impartially free of human spots, moles, and the likewise unattractive, Girl Girl Studio 6 is a porn film disguised as a perfume ad. The exotically foreign women, with their disregard for the impressionable viewers who could be coaxed into smoking, are modeled, poised, and posed to always exemplify the highest reverence for its subjects. Even when the camera is unfocused or the actresses are not properly centered, the effect is artsy not amateur.

That heedfulness is continued throughout. Even as Moire dips, licks, and sips Rose as she punctures Rose's blooming flower, the camera never stares or gawks. It captures sex's, or, perhaps, love making's, completeness, not just the "banging." It's not afraid to back away and steer slightly into soft-core in order to immortalize hugs, kisses, and the nervous giggles of lovers.

While other films may concentrate on close-ups, Girl Girl Studio 6, breaks up the time that's usually allotted for this practice and pans to Moire's hand massaging Rose's thigh, Rose biting her lower lip, or Moire cautiously monitoring from behind her pupil's shoulder. Rose, gasping and trembling, twists her neck to sneak a peek behind her, reaffirming that yes, she's in safe hands or rather that the safe hands are still safely inside of her.

A kiss, a delicate oral greeting from Moire taps Rose's back as the orgasm subsides. The water pellets which had been a mainstay since first attaching themselves from the shower, have been boiled off. The duo's heat-escaping flesh to blame.

As Moire lays back, and the Euro-trash techno music begins, Rose returns the favor, tasting from the buffet of her partner. Her method is not as pronounced as her surrogate porn mother's, but it shouldn't be. It's the effort that counts, and Moire accepts the attention, but reminds her that there's other meals on the menu. And the scene develops further, well past the point of sexual intimacy, as they sit down and finally treat themselves to dinner in the buff of fresh greens, an apt decision for two women who had just tossed a couple salads.

In the ongoing saga of both filming and casting a film, Moire discusses with the camera an unfortunate incident involving the next lipstick lesbian on the casting couch — Joysen. According to Moire, she had conducting a casting session the night before, but had forgotten to bring along a camera. It's difficult to ascertain how Moire could have performed an entire session with a woman that was meant to be done in front of a camera, then realized, only when it concluded, that she had forgotten to bring a camera. Nonetheless, it's not monumental to the plot.

And this endeavor, as Moire surprises Joysen by barging into her bathroom while she relaxes amid candlelight and a bubble bath, disappoints, perhaps partially because of this flimsy setup. Joysen, a large-breasted woman, who, with her hair tied behind her (Joysen is skinny, blonde, and Czech), could be confused with Hayden Pentierre, is open to the impromptu gathering. Moire dabs her co-star clean with a towel.

Unlike the previous scenes, Moire assumes a more assertive role, her motherly behavior has been replaced with a filmmaker's urgency to just get it done. She refuses to undress and offers Joysen alcohol to seemingly loosen the girl up. The kissing, which has become a staple of the scenes, no longer plays a factor in the foreplay, which consists of some discovery of Joysen's breasts. Then she immediately rises her leg on the edge of the tub while Moire chews upward, switching only to mount behind her and to introduce her fingers to Joysen's vagina.

They retreat to a bed where Joysen attempts to disrobe Moire, but she refuses. A clear glass, emotional-enhancing prodding object (better known as the dildo) occupies much of the remaining running time, slipping and sliding while Joysen hoots and hollers. It's filler that's been fit between the pleasing Rose rendevouz and the spectacle that is Michelle, like a palm riding up the crack of your lesbian lover's rear end.

Michelle, as Moire explains, is a shy, nervous, unlikely candidate for a pornographic thespian. Along with Moire's recently recruited camera lady, Tereza Illova, the two embark on setting the stage for Michelle's arrival, which includes drinks and an exterior couch set in an extravagant backyard.

Moire announces her new camera lady, and then assures the viewer that the only camera people involved on this shoot are women. "Don't worry," Moire informs the DVD audience in her ever-more-charming butchered English. "Only girls. No guys at all."

Wow, leave it to Moire to finally realize what so many American adult directors have long been oblivious to: that in a genre geared toward heterosexual males, it would be in the best interest of the filmmaker to limit the amount of testosterone in a film.

Michelle, though, is far worse off than Moire described her to be. Moire tells, in English, that Michelle should not be afraid of the camera. And Michelle responds by looking blankly ahead and grinning politely. When asked about the quality of her trip, Michelle sheepishly adorns her chin to her shoulder and nods. Michelle only speaks Czech (Michelle is skinny, blonde and Czech), and when Moire asks if Michelle is nervous, Michelle doesn't answer. Moire pats her on her leg and replies for her. "Yes. She is." They giggle.

Oh, gosh, do they giggle.

"You don't have to be afraid."

Michelle stands to be evaluated by Moire's linger hands, grazing up her jeans and lifting up her shirt. "If you don't like something, tell me, " Moire says her, although it's in English and it's difficult to understand if Michelle grasps any of it.

Moire is an inappropriate mother, she coerces her "child" by securing her trust. With just these few actions, the story is told. A bashful, easy-on-the-eyes lass unsure of the sexuality that has brought her so much attention, is now allowing to bloom within the nonjudgmental crowd of her own gender. Michelle, sipping from her glass, scoots away, hides herself by tentatively obscuring her breasts with her wrist. Moire is not discouraged, she focuses on her right breast, gumming and gnawing on the nipple until Michelle comfortably caves. Michelle eyes the camera lady with apprehension, either anticipating the worst or just overwhelmed by the sudden movement. She's the incomplete person, the anti-porn star, developing modestly into a sexual being before the camera's documenting lens.

Michelle finally opens up, emotionally first by confessing that her pleasure point is her foot, which Moire accommodates by engulfing a toe between her lips. Michelle slopes down, and Moire circulates her front fingers. It's an unexplored feeling for Michelle, she looks like she's on the verge of sobbing, though she makes no attempt to resist. Inhaling, forgetting to breathe out proper integrals, Michelle fumbles into opening up physically. Moire's tongue persists. She rises herself up off the ground, squirming, then pulling her headband off, winging it, yanking at her brunette roots. She's made the evolution, as evidenced by her hand on the back of Moire's head. She reaches her inner zenith, clutching at the mattress, heaving it up while they're both on top.

Michelle rolls to her teacher. Her reluctance to join in is now a reluctance to leave. Moire kisses her forehead and informs the camer lady to leave them alone. They cuddle as it fades out, leaving the viewers to use their imagination about the romatic connection that has been given birth.

The film ends with two more additional scenes. One with Ariel (who is skinny and Czech, but has red hair) and Jenny (who is skinny, blonde, and Czech). Identical in nature, Moire requests that they both strip, which they oblige to, then dabbles with their chests. Jenny, however, is convinced to scissors, matching clitorises by comparing the amount of pleasure that can be derived from rubbing them against each other.

By the two-hour mark, Girl Girl Studio 6 has given the viewer an idea of its limitations. Keana Moire can follow her own script only so much before it wears thin. When Moire is not escorting her costars through the riggers of the adult industry, Girl Girl Studio 6 is just six sex scenes. But it's those moments when Moire motherly soothes the butterflies from the captivity in her costars' stomachs that set this disc apart.

Girl Girl Studio 6 is a typical lesbian disc. Though it deviates slightly into the different territory with a powerful, confident, female lead, the film should include more variety ina disc that runs longer than two hours. As sensual as Moire becomes with Michelle, Rose, and Carol, she's just as unconvincing with Ariel, Jenny, and Joysen. It's as unconvincing as the dye jobs of many of the actresses.

But that still doesn't tranish Michelle.   As fake as that might be, I still want to believe.

Interested in seeing this movie?