On a scale ranging from a humble neighborhood pocket park to the singular archetype of The Only Living Pickpocket in New York, where exactly does screen legend and native son John Turturro fit? This is the central question behind NYQ, a signature interview series designed to measure the true, unadulterated "New York-ness" of the city’s most iconic and celebrated residents.
For Turturro, whose cinematic DNA is inextricably bound to the gritty, poetic, and idiosyncratic realities of the five boroughs, the answers to this city-centric quiz reveal a lifetime of deep roots, old-school memories, and an enduring, romantic fascination with the metropolis he has called home for over half a century.
When asked about the foundational metrics of his tenure, Turturro’s responses immediately establish his veteran status. He has lived in New York City for more than 50 years, navigating the notoriously volatile local real estate market by moving roughly seven times across the decades. Growing up in Queens during an era when the outer boroughs viewed Manhattan simply as "the city"—never by its formal name—shaped an early, instinctive map of urban geography that has stayed with him ever since.
That instinctive navigation is put to the test when considering practical cross-town transit. Asked how he would travel from Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side to the Morgan Library in Murray Hill without consulting a smartphone, Turturro relies on a classic commuter’s calculus. While acknowledging the option of a cross-town bus or train, he figures he would at least walk eastward first before dropping down to the 6 train, demonstrating the practical, foot-leather approach of someone who trusts the pavement more than an algorithm.
Speaking of algorithms, Turturro holds a characteristic skepticism toward modern conveniences like GPS navigation, noting that contemporary cab drivers are often overly reliant on screens rather than the deep, intuitive institutional knowledge possessed by older generations of drivers. "You’re under the impression that the GPS is always going to be correct, and that’s not necessarily true," he observes, reflecting a common sentiment among longtime residents who miss the human element of navigating the chaotic grid.
His geographic literacy extends beyond Manhattan and Queens, deep into the industrial and residential patches of Staten Island—though his memories of the borough carry a distinct, familial flavor. Turturro recalls working in Staten Island many times during his youth, helping his father, a builder who constructed numerous houses there. Remembering the distinct topography of the area, he notes how the local ground was packed with red clay that would leave his father’s car perpetually filthy. The elder Turturro even gave the borough a memorable nickname, telling his son, "We’re going to the Blob," whenever their work took them across the water.
Turturro’s relationship with the city’s eccentricities also extends to the classic street-level rituals of New York life, such as being accosted by people handing out promotional flyers. Rather than brushing them off with annoyance, Turturro’s mind drifts back to his own days in the avant-garde theater scene. During the height of the sexual revolution in the Off-Off-Broadway trenches, he and his peers had to hustle fiercely to fill seats. Encouraged by a friend, Turturro would wear remarkably short shorts on the street to hand out flyers for their productions—a strategy that, much to his amusement, successfully drew an audience.
When the rest of the city flees during a long holiday weekend, emptying the concrete canyons and leaving the avenues strangely silent, Turturro knows precisely where to seek refuge. Far from escaping the region entirely, he revels in the emptiness, heading straight for the city’s sprawling green spaces, botanical gardens, Green-Wood Cemetery, and institutions like the Film Forum. For Turturro, the city is at its best when the crowds momentarily evaporate.
That deep appreciation for New York’s hidden architectural and cultural wonders also keeps him young. Asked what tourist activity he secretly still engages in, Turturro admits to occasionally stumbling upon brand-new marvels that take his breath away. A recent visit to the Beekman left him utterly transfixed. "I was like amazed at this place," he recalls, describing the soaring, historic atrium as feeling like "another world inside."
Even his transit patience has been pushed to cinematic extremes. Asked for the longest he has ever waited on a subway platform, Turturro casually tosses out a staggering 45 minutes to an hour, a true badge of honor for any daily commuter acquainted with the unpredictable rhythms of the MTA.
Turturro’s personal history with the city’s artistic luminaries reads like a localized folklore. Long before achieving international acclaim as an actor and director, he spent time working as a bartender at the Right Bank, where he served drinks to a peak-era Al Pacino. Turturro fondly remembers sending the legendary actor home with tubs of ice cream—a glimpse into a bygone, more intimate era of Manhattan nightlife.
That reverence for the city’s lost artistic institutions is most palpable when he reflects on the theaters and venues that have vanished over the years. Chief among them is the Ridiculous Theatrical Company, run by the brilliant playwright and actor Charles Ludlam at Sheridan Square. Remembering Ludlam’s genius for cross-dressing and playing every single character in his wildly inventive productions, Turturro laments the loss of a unique comedic force who made him laugh like no one else.
When the conversation turns to the romantic and cultural icons of the city, Turturro confesses to harboring a powerful, lifelong admiration for Barbra Streisand, admitting that he held such a severe crush on her for years that it felt almost like a personal relationship.
Yet, perhaps no memory captures the colorful, chaotic domesticity of a New York upbringing quite like Turturro’s recollection of a legendary post-work meal. Working late on Staten Island with his father and feeling completely famished, a young Turturro gravitated toward his beloved Sabrett hot dog stands. What followed was a feat of competitive endurance: he polished off an astonishing 11 hot dogs loaded with sauerkraut and mustard. As his father watched in amused disbelief, repeatedly asking if he wanted another, Turturro nonchalantly finished the marathon lunch—and remarkably, lived to tell the tale without getting sick.
