‘The Only Living Pickpocket in New York’ Review: John Turturro is Wonderful as a Timeless Anti-Hero with a 1970s Vibe [A-] | Sundance

The phrase “a love letter to…” has become such a cliché that it is almost meaningless nowadays, and yet, there is no more apt description of Noah Segan’s The Only Living Pickpocket in New York than to say that it truly is a love letter to an evolving city, and an elegant eulogy of a place that now only exists in memory.

Opening with LCD Soundsystem’s “New York, I Love You but You’re Bringing Me Down,” we observe a businessman (John Gallagher, Jr.) going about his morning routine, blissfully unaware that by the time he meets colleagues for lunch, his wallet will have been dropped into a postal box, his cash and credit cards long gone. The man’s mistake was boarding the same subway car as Harry (John Turturro), an unremarkable face in a sea of them, a Zegna cashmere coat the only noteworthy thing about him, if this crowd of commuters paid attention to such details.

Harry has been picking pockets for decades. It’s his way of life and he’s good at it. Whether he ever had a real job is unclear, and though the spoils aren’t what they used to be, he still earns enough to keep his apartment in the Bronx and care for his beloved wife Rosie (Karina Arroyave), left catatonic from an illness. Everything about Harry is a scrapbook of the past. His coat, his manners, the apartment adorned with old jazz albums and framed concert posters. He shines up his shoes and tells unresponsive Rosie he’ll stop at the library and pick up a tape. Maybe a Barbara Stanwyck movie. He is gentlemanly and sincere, perhaps unexpected traits in a man who prowls the streets stealing peoples’ valuables. 

A reliably entertaining character actor, Turturro infuses poise and grace into his aging pickpocket. Harry’s resistance to change with the times has less to do with change itself, and is more about his belief in things that last. The film is a throwback to a certain subset of 70s gangster films by Cassavetes and Altman and May, and Turturro’s tender, thoughtful performance is reminiscent of Ben Gazzara in The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, Elliot Gould in California Split, or Peter Falk in Mikey and Nicky.

Harry’s long-time friend Ben (Steve Buscemi) owns the pawn shop where the sticky-fingered artist usually offloads his goods. Watches, cell phones, credit cards, expensive products with a remarkably low resale value since everything is traceable these days. Ben is a perfect complement to Harry, the two men relics of the past, though only one seems willing to accept it. Buscemi is funny, self-deprecating, and wise, bestowing an air of grumpy indifference in an understated yet effective performance.

Night falls on the city and Harry wanders past construction sites, boutiques, a Little Caesars tucked next to a decades-old bagel shop. A 1969 Trans-Am pulls into a parking lot full of Benzes and BMWs and the classic muscle car, unencumbered by modern anti-theft chips and doodads, is a car he can break into and does, helping himself to a gym bag and a few other odds and ends before carefully wiping his prints from the door handle and disappearing — he thinks — into a nearby subway station. He takes what he can and tosses the rest, including a handgun, hops on the next train and heads home, running into Detective Warren, a wonderfully meek and kind Giancarlo Esposito. It is a coincidence that they have crossed paths and also exchange memories of the old days. Warren is nearing forced retirement from the NYPD and is as wistful about his future as Harry is.

In the twenty-first century, there’s no such thing as disappearing and Harry hasn’t counted on his mark, an obnoxious twenty-something named Dylan (a fantastic Will Price) having the smarts to track his movements via street cameras and CCTV, nor does the old man realize he has robbed a kid from a dangerous, wealthy family, not the expensive and fancy watch (“Everything has a clock in it,” says Ben), but a USB card Ben’s ancient computer can’t read. In a brilliant clash between old school and new, Harry accepts that he cannot compete with Dylan’s modern lifestyle and tools. He can resign himself to any fate as long as his Rosie is cared for.

In his second feature, writer/director Segan, an actor best known for his work with Rian Johnson, constructs a New York crime drama that deserves a place among celebrated classics of the 1960s and 70s. At only 88 minutes, Pickpocket is patient and methodical without a lot of excess. With a sharp eye from cinematographer Sam Levy, Segan sends Harry on a journey through all five of New York’s burroughs, stopping in a shiny new vape store that used to be a pawn shop, knocking on the door of his estranged daughter Kelly (a standout cameo from Tatiana Maslany). “I’m sorry for just dropping in,” Harry says with a shy grin. “Wrong thing to apologize for,” Kelly answers. The brief visit has no bearing on the central storyline and yet is essential to understand some of Harry’s mistakes and regrets, as well as his current state of mind. 

The overall pacing is just right, taking its time to enjoy the place and its people, though the last fifteen minutes slow down too much when the pieces all start coming together and a secret, very high profile star enters the picture. Bobby Short croons “I Happen to Like New York” as a very long, slow pan across the city’s skyline at sunset is almost too much, but doesn’t overrun the brilliance of what came before it. I have not stopped thinking about The Only Living Pickpocket in New York for days. It is a powerful blend of old-style filmmaking and new that deserves to be studied and revisited often.

Grade: A-

This review is from the 2026 Sundance Film Festival where The Only Living Pickpocket in New York had its world premiere.