Melancholic and keenly attuned to the world of low-level New York City crime, The Only Living Pickpocket in New York provides an old-school helping of urban life that revolves around John Turturro’s performance as Harry, a pickpocket nearing the end of his hustle.
Times have changed. Credit cards have put a crimp on light-fingered activities. The bricks that held up the old street order are crumbling. The movie can be taken as an ode to New York City as a haven for layers of hidden subcultures and the characters who occupy them.
Steve Buscemi — a master of making big impressions in small roles — plays Ben, a pawnshop owner who has known Harry for years. The two men understand each other, although both recognize the transactional imperatives of their relationship. Harry's a seller, Ben, a buyer.
Turturro’s performance has a sad-sack quality that’s enhanced by the roomy gray overcoat he wears, a necessity of his trade as well as a cloak of anonymity, something to disappear inside.
The story hinges on a stroke of epic bad luck. Harry picks the wrong target. He steals from a 1969 Trans Am belonging to a Gen Z hotshot (Will Price). Harry's haul includes a bag containing a gun and, more importantly, a USB chip holder Harry considers baffling and worthless. It’s the young man’s key to his brand of larceny. He wants it back, and can call on mob connections for help.
Harry’s life is weighted with woe. His wife (Karina Arroyave) is bed-ridden, immobile, and unable to communicate. Harry cares for her with extraordinary tenderness, treating her as if she were an active participant in the conversations he pretends to have with her in their Bronx apartment.
Harry’s chance subway encounter with a long-time adversary (Giancarlo Esposito), a detective who’s also aging out of his job, captures a spirit of shared obsolescence. The two former adversaries know their worlds are vanishing, even if they haven’t totally given up the fight.
Turturro's performance has plenty of nuance. A scene in which he visits his long-estranged daughter (Tatiana Maslany) proves quietly touching. A single tear rolls down Harry’s cheek. He recognizes the righteousness of his daughter’s anger about a father who was never available to her.
Director Noah Segan adds caper-like flavor to the final going, which includes a masterful cameo from Jamie Lee Curtis. But the movie's unforced delight stems from the director’s obvious fondness for Harry and the city that bred him.
In his apartment, Harry dances alone to Odyssey's Native New Yorker, a 1977 disco hit. Full of grace and control, the moment feels free and beautiful, a recollection of long ago nights out. It's a small moment with big-deal vibes. Segan and Turturro find a rare expression of Harry at his best, a complete melding of the man and his environment.
Native New Yorker indeed.
