This review is based on a screening from the Sundance Film Festival.
In The Only Living Pickpocket in New York, writer and director Noah Segan yearns for a bygone Big Apple. The film, set in modern times, is a jazzy, sentimental ode to the New York City of yesteryear; it’s sappy and starry-eyed, but also tenderly humorous in bursts. At other times, the story becomes a sad glimpse into the lost art of pickpocketing – not that the production advocates for thievery, but Segan uses a slick aging swindler to reminisce about an American hub that’s been digitized by tech magnates and overrun with nepotism babies.
John Turturro is magnificent as Harry, an old-school pickpocket who’s keeping the outdated art form alive. He has to; it’s the only way he can caretake for his non-responsive, invalid wife, Rosie (Karina Arroyave). One night, he swipes a wallet and gym bag from an especially prickish dudebro using only a penny; what he finds is a gun, wads of cash, and a doohickey that plugs into a computer. Harry trashes the gun and sells the credit-card-looking object with a USB plug, which turns out to be very, very important. Soon enough, thugs come looking for the revealed crypto key. Either Harry retrieves the stolen item, or he’s facing harsh consequences.
Segan’s maturation as a filmmaker from Blood Relatives to The Only Living Pickpocket in New York is like the difference between Staten Island and Manhattan; it’s so intrinsically ‘New Yawk’ in both commemoration and adoration. There’s a song-and-dance about Harry’s remembrance of the good times, and spot-on comedy as Harry tries to catch up with civilization. Segan roasts the entitled youth who have brought their sour attitudes and pretension to the East Coast’s bustling metropolis, as he interacts with elder characters like Steve Buscemi’s pawn-star Ben about how no one’s word means a damn anymore. At times, The Only Living Pickpocket in New York plays like a lively stoop conversation between neighborhood elders who’ve seen their block change over decades (a compliment).
Turturro is, as ever, a gift to audiences. His portrayal of Harry is that of a lovable hustler whose movements are smoother than butter. He’s a man of the people, whether jawing about the golden days of pickpocketing with Detective Warren (Giancarlo Esposito) like retirement home buddies, or treating Rosie like a princess (carrying her up staircases, reading her corny romance novels). Turturro’s slippery maneuvers sell Harry as this masterclassman of his illegal profession, but once he’s in over his head, his desperation hits like a semi-truck. Is there any actor more charming, too suave, and yet vulnerable once the deck is stacked against him? If you need one more reason to classify Turturro as a multigenerational talent, it’s The Only Living Pickpocket in New York.
As for the pickpocketry, Segan treats Harry’s lifestyle like a dying art; either you adapt, or you fade away. Scores have dwindled because no one carries cash anymore – just trackable cards and smartphone wallets. Harry’s execution is flawless, snatching wallets like he’s invisible, wearing overcoats with tactical pockets to ensure the shortest path from removal to hiding spot. There’s something romantic about the way Harry scoffs at the cyberthieves of younger generations – Victoria Moroles’ whippersnapper Eve roasts the fogey right back – but mentors up-and-comers who need guidance. Weirdly enough, the death of pickpockets in New York signals this changing of the times, which Segan treats with warm reverence.
Segan and his team succeed in authentically recreating the nooks and crannies of New York City. Cinematographer Sam Levy squeezes the camera into the confined spaces of corner pawn shops, barren vape bodegas, and humble Bronx apartments while still capturing the city’s grandness. Composer Gary Lionelli honors the jazz-esque tempo with which Harry operates by delivering a bouncy, fleet-of-foot score. Impressively, Segan’s representation of New York, New York smacks of Woody Allen or Martin Scorsese; the way he navigates the one-of-a-kind sights and sounds evokes nostalgia for my years in Brooklyn, a testament to the connection Segan strikes with the city.
Plain and simple, The Only Living Pickpocket in New York features veteran performers chewing up concrete scenery and strutting through a thrilling and wholesome caper. It’s a “one last hurrah” type of flick with a niche appeal that lets the ensemble shine. The faux confidence, the spoiled gangsters, the tired seniors who pray that newbies can learn an ounce of respect along the way – it’s all so memorably old-fashioned. Even with all that – and as much as you’ll laugh – Harry’s arc still latches onto your soul in a pure and special way. That’s the power of Turturro, but kudos also go to Segan’s rich idiosyncrasies that draw us into Harry’s gravitational pull.
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