Contributed by Jonathan Stevenson / Whether as Barton Fink in the Coen Brothers’ eponymous film, Herb Stempel in Quiz Show, or John Stone in The Night Of, John Turturro has wielded haplessness as a tool of disarmament. Never has he done it so deftly as in Noah Segan’s neo-noir indie instant classic The Only Living Pickpocket in New York. It’s a mordant tribute to New York City then, now, and forever – but especially then, circa 1995 – spiritually akin to a Nora Griffin painting. Turturro is Harry Lehman, a smooth analog bandit in a graceless digital world. He doesn’t use cell phones or any other contemporary accoutrements and doesn’t want to. He has gotten along like a wilier Ralph Kramden, living in a kip in The Bronx, caring stoically for his catatonically disabled wife – which tracks more as New Hollywood angst than warped humor – and fencing his daily yield through a pawn shop run by an old friend named Ben of kindred throwback sensibilities, played to grimily honorable perfection by, inevitably, Steve Buscemi.
