In The Only Living Pickpocket in New York, an aging small-time criminal steals the wrong item, forcing a journey to retrieve it. John Turturro leads Noah Segan’s precise, quietly powerful character drama in one of his best performances.
The Only Living Pickpocket in New York is the sort of film that seems simple and unencumbered by trying to be more than it is as the viewer follows two days of John Turturro’s Harry as he deals with the ramifications of boosting the wrong wallet. Heck, maybe it is; that’s a good thing. Writer-director Noah Segan’s precise, particular execution gives his tale weight, led by an always fantastic John Turturro.
Although clearly set, and needed to be, in the modern era, The Only Living Pickpocket is reminiscent of, and reverent toward, the 70s, both in the decade’s living memory and its films. Specifically, New York. Textured. Lived in. Segan, in his second film after the vampire comedy Blood Relatives, writes a love letter to a city that has passed, but without feeling sentimental or chinzy. Where the subway lines and deep avenues tell the stories of the deep lines on a well-lived man’s face. This is the world of Turturro as the titular character, Steve Buscemi as his friend and fencer Ben, and the other characters that live within their insular, increasingly left-behind circle, including Kelvin Han Yee’s secondary fencer Frank and even Giancarlo Esposito, a detective Harry clearly has a long history of frenemies with (I adored their handful of scenes; such chemistry). 
This old-school outlook is lived in with another strong turn from the always-reliable John Turturro, of countless Coen Brothers films or more popular works like The Batman and “gotta pay the rent” Transformers films. Of course, Turturro was born in 1957, so he was barely out of his 20s when 1980 rolled around, but that’s beside the point. Turturro carries a quiet weariness in an incredible, internal performance (as an actor, Turturro can go big and showy, and still wow; but his quiet sadness hits hard). His life of easy petty crime seems to have done alright financially over time, but it’s led him into a never-ending circle, sliding toward a bottom. Yet, it’s a comfortable life, it seems, moving through his circles, caring for his comatose wife. He knows the world has moved on, but he hangs on his own terms. Yes, but one always teeters and often leaves loved ones in the wake, staying a few steps ahead. But the complicated, digital modern world is about to tread on his simple, analog, impeccably polished shoes.
On his rounds, Harry lifts a duffle bag from a 20-something douchebag. A bag that contains a wallet, a gun, a buttload of cash, and a weird, unmarked card. It’s that card, the key to a massive crypto wallet (or however that works; here I’m with Turturro; I don’t get it and I don’t want to). The douchebag turns out to be connected: a crime boss’s grandson (Jamie Lee Curtis!). Under threat of harm to everyone he knows and loves, Henry has to retrace his steps and where it might have gone, taking him across all five boroughs to recover the key. Backed by Gary Lionni’s fantastic and jazzy score, he revisits his past and the long life he’s lived, for good or for loss, including an understated but history-brimming scene with Tatiana Maslany. But nothing is overstated; that’s the key to unlocking the strength of The Only Living Pickpocket in New York.
Segan has a history as a solid character actor, often a point man for his pal Rian Johnson (appearing in all of his films), and that does wonders for finding grounded, lived-in performances with his cast. Of course, they are all amazing, well-trod performers, but that doesn’t lessen the easy power he gets from them; you feel the depth of their lives. And I’m particularly impressed by his standing castmate of New York City. It’s cliché to call The City a character, but it’s apt. The muted color palette, texture, and darkness give the city something special, like Scorsese and De Palma’s New York stories, Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, or Hi, Mom. There’s an intense love of the bygone era. Sure, there was the dirt and nastiness of the grindhouse; I love my 42nd Street Larry Cohen, Abel Ferrara, and Henenlotter (he’s the 80s, but I stand by it); but that’s the joy of the city: it’s a full life. I’m sure current NYC is as vibrant, but in this modern society of sanded-off edges for copy-paste sterility across metropolitan cityscapes, it’s wonderful to celebrate this city and its past of cinema and cosmopolitanism.
The Only Living Pickpocket in New York is a true film, grounded in its world and cinematography. John Turturro delivers one of his best performances in a lifetime of fantastic roles, and Segan keeps a precise, even hand in his direction. It’s a remarkable film of truth and nuance; of lived lives and histories. It has a discernible texture in style and city, a feeling rarely found in modern films. Recommended.