Sybil Temtchine (Ten Benny, Passion of Ayn Rand) stars as a young woman who wakes up at dawn on the handprints and footprints of the famed Chinese Theatre in Hollywood with no idea who she or how she got there. Upon awakening, she wonders if she isn't, in fact, lost in a dream. And perhaps she is. Regardless of whether she is dreaming or wide awake, Our Gal sets off on her journey, from one person to the next, one famous locale after the other. Among the Hollywood fringe denizens with whom she comes into contact are a pair of tour guides (Charley Rossman, John Brickner), two super hero impersonators (Catherine Bruhier, Riley Weston), a Scientology auditor (Joe Roseto), and a memorabilia shop owner (R.J. Cantu). She also finds herself disquietingly followed by a Stranger (Kirk Bovill) who may be real or a figment of her unsteady imagination. Although her feet only fleetingly leave Hollywood Boulevard, by sundown Our Gal will piece together the revelatory truth about her existence and the reason for her awakening, forcing her to make choices that will literally result in either her life... or death. In their heart-breaking portrayals of two veterans of the boulevard and all it represents, FOOTPRINTS marks the return to the big screen of The Searchers' Pippa Scott and H. M. Wynant (The Twilight Zone, Sam Fuller's Run of the Arrow, Budd Boetticher's Decision at Sundown). -- (c) Paladin … More
as Our Gal
as Homeless Man
as Mike the Tour Guide
as The Stranger
as Cat Woman
as Pasha's Mom
as Brunette Teen
as Red-Headed Teen
as Super Girl
as Joe the Auditor
as Lost Russian
as Homeless Man
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Critic Reviews for Footprints
It's original and poetic, and if you see it you will probably remember scenes from it a year from now, because it's not really like anything else.
Will it change your life? Probably not, but it will entertain, and even if you do find it eventually gets too slow for your tastes, the film at least delivers enough memorable performances for you to at least walk away with something.
A disappointing feature directoiral debut, which amounts to no more than a tiresome, shallow tour of Hollywood Boulevard.
Some filmmakers and journalists like to promote the myth of Hollywood as a wonderful, harmless dream machine but that disingenuous notion is touchingly subverted in Steven Peros' Footprints.
"Footprints" looks like a Jim Jarmusch film set inside an Edward Hopper painting.
The script's so incoherent and the acting so amateurish that it makes the worst old-time Hollywood B-flick seem like "Citizen Kane."
This often risible head-scratcher never cracks the surface of its muddled ambitions, largely wasting its iconic settings on a series of motley interactions, Tinseltown trivia and self-conscious philosophizing.
From its "once upon a time" beginning to the anticlimactic end, "Footprints" remains fatally lodged in La-La Land.
[Seems] like a downmarket David Lynch knockoff, right down to a mysterious glowering man who occasionally appears out of nowhere.
Rife with classic-cinema shoutouts, the film is a cutesy, toothless variation on Mulholland Drive, one whose attempts to pay tribute to movie magic are ultimately undercut by stagey aesthetics and narrative theatricality.
The barely coherent Footprints seems bent on erasing any nostalgia one might have for Hollywood's heyday.
It all leads to some rather obvious bits of dialogue and down the rabbit hole of a half-baked, borderline incoherent conclusion.
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