We did a lot of television these past few weeks, and I’m struck by the differences in studios and the effects on the interviews. The Access Hollywood studio in Burbank was full of bustling people: producers, hosts, camera operators, gaffers, powder-puffers, etc. The atmosphere was lively, jokey, fun, and efficient. Among the crew, there were winks, high-fives, and laughs, though within a sense of electric urgency: let’s get this done, but have a good time doing it.
On the set of Access Hollywood with hosts Kit Hoover and Billy Bush.KCAL's human-free newscast studio.
Contrast that with KCAL’s Studio City set at KCBS. The huge set was dark and completely empty of humans, except for the two hosts. Acres of polished cement were trod only by electronic cameras, which glided silently, each trailing a thick tail of bound cords. The atmosphere was…dead. The interview was humdrum. Uninspired. Perhaps there was a party going on in the control room, I don’t know.
NBC Nonstop L.A. with Colleen Williams
Same went for the KNBC Studio. Robotic cameras clicked and whirred in the darkness, rolling across the floor, rising, lowering, like ghost-spys. Their thick yellow umbilicals were, presumably, coiled by flesh-and-blood hands. Lack of human warmth leads to stilted talk, at least with a performer used to working in front of a live audience. The interview with Colleen Williams was interesting and informative, but dry.
Electric Playground's adorable Miri Jedeikin interviews Bob Arno in the street
Understandably different were the streetside interviews. Electric Playground’s adorable Miri Jedeikin obviously had a blast interviewing Bob in the heart of Hollywood, and it shows in the finished product.
The Examiner‘s Danielle Turchiano and KABC-TV’s Ric Romero did lively sidewalk interviews in which Bob was able to demonstrate on passersby—always fun and successful.
In two trips to New York City, Bob appeared twice on Fox & Friends and once on The Today Show (which I can’t find online).
This very cup, holding this very fine pen, sat on a desk in our room. The coffee cup was from the hotel’s restaurant. The pen is our own.
When we returned to our room, housekeeping had straightened up and the cup was gone. So was our pen. Stretching a bit, I can understand that the maid might take the cup and return it to the property’s restaurant, even though it was being used (as a pen-holder). But how could she take the pen along with it? Is she blind? Was she so rushed that she didn’t notice? Didn’t it rattle or clink as she carried the cup away?
She returned the pen eventually, before we had to ask for it.
A postcard from Naples! I recognized the image of the thirteenth century Castel Nuovo right away. It was an old postcard, but lots of things in Naples are old. I turned it over and looked at the signatures. Luciano! One of the pickpockets in our National Geographic documentary! I read the handwriting.
“Dear Bob, Grazie mille for you to come to Napoli. We have very great dinner insieme.”
Great dinner together. It sure was! I was smiling already.
“We all hope you come next year aigain and we have dinner. Molto bene tempe.”
And at the top: “Very great film, Bob”
Wow, the thieves are happy with the film! They’re inviting us back. I was bursting with happiness, and eager to show Bob. This postcard will make his day. His week, even.
I scrutinized the five signatures. Luciano was clear and obvious. Giuseppe, though, who’s that? I don’t remember a Giuseppe. Mario—we know two pickpockets named Mario in Naples, but neither was in our film. Andrea? and what’s that other scribble?
Franco, our favorite thief, had recently emailed us and mentioned that some of his crew had been arrested and thrown in jail. “We both know why,” he’d hinted. Did he mean because they’d made the film? Because they’d flaunted omertà and revealed too much? Bob and I felt guilty. Our intention was not to have the thieves arrested or to otherwise change the course of their lives. Besides, in Naples, everyone knows who the pickpockets are—it’s no secret. They’ve all been arrested numerous times.
Luciano must have been one of those arrested, I surmised. He’s in jail with a bunch of other pickpockets we don’t know by name, but they all saw our film and liked it, and wanted to let us know through Luciano, whom we’ve known since 1998.
They liked it! They’re not mad at us. They don’t feel exploited. They don’t blame us for jail time. They’re inviting us to another festive dinner in a den of thieves!
And they actually went out and found a postcard, dug up our address, bought a stamp, and mailed us a postcard! Bob and I were deeply touched.
[Let me pause here to reiterate what a conflict it is to “like” these criminals. We’re well-aware that their daily business wreaks havoc on their victims. Some victims are scarred for life. They suffer financial loss, sometimes great financial loss, as well as inconvenience. They may lose nonrefundable flights they miss because their passports have to be replaced, they may lose work because they have to extend their stay, they may have to arrange for child care at home, etc. Their vacations are ruined. They depart despising the destination they came to experience. I know. But as we research the methods and motivations of these thieves, we come to know some of them. And some, I have to say, have likable qualities. Their work is despicable, but they themselves often seem to have some redeeming attributes. While we find ourselves “liking” some of these characters, we feel queasy about it on examination. We realize how it comes off, too. We struggle with the contradiction.]
We called Kun, the film’s director, on skype and held up the postcard, front and back. “Wow,” Kun said, “that’s so great. Will you send me a scan?” Kun seemed to feel the postcard was better than film industry praise.
We were telling the world. Anyone who’d followed the adventures of our filmmaking heard about our postcard from the pickpockets. A week after receiving it, we gloated to Bob’s brother in Stockholm.
“Was it signed by Luciano and Giuseppe?” he asked. I saw Bob’s face fall. The self-proclaimed country bumpkin, the infamous practical joker, had gotten us. Bob cracked up. Brother-in-law had snuck off to Italy without telling us, scouted the antique shops of Rome for a Naples postcard, and scribbled the pidgin text. He couldn’t remember all the names of the thieves we’ve spoken of, but one was enough for credibility. We’d eaten it up.
Intruder on the loose. In the midst of all the excitement of the premiere of our National Geographic documentary, and all the television promotion that came from it, we’ve moved. From Las Vegas to the Phoenix area, from one desert to another, as if Vegas wasn’t hot enough for us.
The soundtrack at our Vegas house was primarily sirens, especially at night. These were often accompanied by the Doppler effect of percussive, droning police helicopters as they circled my neighborhood, even, seemingly, my house, with blinding searchlights flashing through my windows as if I might be harboring the criminal on the loose.
“Another criminal on the loose,” I’d always say. Between the sirens and helicopters, there was the pleasant, haunting whistle and distant rush of freight trains. That sound I liked.
In my new house, the audio is dominated by silence. I hear coyotes every night. They howl nearby and rush yipping in pack formation through my backyard. One bunny fewer hops through the yard at breakfast. I hear owls, too. And yes, I’ve seen the coyotes. Three of them together, waltzing across my backyard early in the morning.
Last week, walking toward my bedroom, I heard a crunch. Turning, I was horrified to see that I’d stepped on a giant scorpion. It must have fallen out of the rolled rug I was carrying. Yikes!
The scorpion was running in circles when I turned to see it. I should mention that, luckily, I was wearing moccasins at the time. I could have been barefoot. Even with soft shoes on, my left foot felt guilty and creeped out for hours afterward. As if I could feel the contact point.
I fled the scene to phone my nearby sister, who’s well-acquainted with these primeval exoskeletoned creatures, and who had her house “scorpion-proofed” after confronting too many of them.
“You left it unattended?!” she accused. “They’re very hard to kill. You probably only broke a leg or two. Cover it with a jar and a weight.”
I went back to examine the monster, remembering the live edible specimens I’d seen in Beijing earlier this year. It was a few feet away from where I’d last seen it, but still. Not moving. It seemed to be dead. I bravely stamped my foot loudly beside it. It didn’t move. I blew on it. Nothing. I snapped the photo above and left the house to get Bob at the airport.
“Watch out for the dead scorpion in the hall,” I told him, as he headed for the bedroom.
“Where?”
Gone! That was the moment I began to wish for the police helicopter searchlights. A giant scorpion on the loose. In my house. With reason to be vengeful. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.
Obsessing on the fact my sister had mentioned: that they carry their babies on their backs. A whole brood could already be scampering into my shoes and sheets and up the curtains.
Two days later Bob found it. Dead, in the bedroom. Which is some distance from the site of the accident. Or was it the same scorpion…? Dead, it didn’t look so giant.
The next day I started when I saw a scorpion on the kitchen table. Bob had brought the mail in and a postcard peeked out from the bottom of the heap. It had a realistic photo of a scorpion on it, and advertised a scorpion extermination service. Hmmm… what a coincidence. Would a scorpion exterminator plant a few of the devils to scare new residents into its service? I tell you, it’s on the verge of working.
I cannot bang every shoe before I step into it. I cannot shake out the bed sheets every night, or scan the walls and ceilings for creepers. I can’t live like that. For now, I’ve decided to put them out of my mind and ignore them. At least until the spring, when they become more active. At least until I see another one.
Denouement. None of us wanted to leave the park. After the demos, the dinner, and the as-yet-untold experience on the buses, after the conversation, the exchange of trade secrets, the trust, and yes, the new friendships, we sort of bonded. And I mean all of us: the band of thieves, the filmmaking crew, and the Arnos in the middle.
We stand there in the park in two concentric circles. The inner circle is Bob, Michele, Frank, Andy, and Marc. The outer circle is Van with the Red on his shoulder and his assistant holding his shoulders to guide him, director Kun, producer Kath, fixer Rosie, and me. None of us want to say goodbye.
Work finally pulls Marc and Andy away, but Frank remains. And finally, after two complete rounds of hugs and kisses, Frank straddles his bike, snaps on his helmet, and rides away. Van follows him with the camera until he’s out of sight.
We’re all physically and mentally exhausted; spent. I don’t know how the crew kept going; they were up hours before us every day and working for hours after we said goodnight. Yesterday they went nonstop from the market to the thieves’ restaurant to the second restaurant without a break, setting up and taking down equipment repeatedly. They are champions, all of them.
Making this documentary allowed Bob and me to fulfill certain long-held dreams. It allowed us the time in which to develop relationships with our subjects. It allowed us to have top-notch translators, especially my hero Michele. It enabled us to host our gang of thieves at a meal that Bob and I alone would need investors to fund, but which was integral to the building or our relationship, which gave us the ability to dig deeper into the life and times of pickpockets. And lastly, the documentary gives a soapbox to the subjects, a platform for the pickpockets themselves to explain their methods and motivations, their regrets and their desires.
Writing these stories has been difficult for me. The “easy difficulty,” if there is such a thing, has been simply finding the time to write in the midst of our action-packed days, and then finding an internet connection to get them online. But that’s just a technicality. The true difficulties have been several.
First, whitewashing our incredible host city [Naples!], and by necessity, the characters and true identities of the men in our story. How I had to restrain myself! As a writer, I tend to be of the descriptive sort. I would never say we drank “liqueur!” I want to say what kind [Limoncello], what color [sunshine yellow], and how lovely the fruit it was made from [lemons]. I want to tell about the marvelous restaurants we visited and the wonders of the local cuisine. I want to praise our cliffside hotel [San Francesco al Monte] and describe the view from its terraces, that you can see all the way to …
Sigh.
And—wait a minute! What will this film do to tourism in this mystery town? Will we repel visitors, or intrigue them? Our goal is to balance the stardust with the dirt, to spotlight the unique riches this place has to offer. We hope it comes through in the film. I certainly left it out of these stories.
And there is something of a moral dilemma. In an exchange of thievery techniques, are we teaching known criminals how to steal more and better? We don’t think so, but how do you see it? What about the techniques the general public will learn from watching the film—should we be concerned about how that knowledge may be used? We don’t think so, but we agree that it looks bad—as if we’re teaching how to steal.
I’m afraid of what the public will think of Bob and me in our pursuit of thieves. Will you chastise us for not stopping thefts when we see them? Or will you understand that our method, getting “in” with these criminals, has a greater end? Will you think us awful for liking the pickpockets, despite knowing what havoc they wreak, what distress they cause? In the film, it will be up to Kun to portray us honestly alongside our motives. But here in these writings, it was my responsibility. Do you think it’s all fun and games for us, that we dine with thieves for a lark? Do you understand that as outsiders, allowed into an underground brotherhood of thieves, we are able to gather knowledge for the greater good? Please comment. We need to know if we should hide under a rock when the film comes out.
We are incredibly grateful to film director Kun Chang, who has pushed this project forward for more than four years already. Bob and I have complete faith in him and have no doubt that he’ll put together a documentary that is as beautiful and dramatic as it is fascinating and educational.
While the shooting isn’t over, the exciting part is. What’s left is hard work, mostly by Kun and his editing team. It’s impossible for me to imagine how they’ll make sense of the vast amount of gripping footage we have accumulated. I also recognize that my perception of the experience is not the same as Kun’s. The sterile, stripped-down story I told here, missing highlights (believe it or not), missing local color (of which there’s tons), genericizing everything for the sake of the eventual film, may have little resemblance to Kun’s vision. We will all be surprised at the film: you, readers; and Bob and I.
This is Part 21 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.
—Originally posted 10/5/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
Bob gets cold feet. Overnight, reality began to percolate and bubble over the exhilaration of yesterday’s thieves’ challenge. By morning it was clear to Bob that stealing from the innocent public requires a set of attributes he lacked. Pickpockets in the U.S. call it heart, but they are referring to a lower part of the anatomy. They mean balls. I call it a criminal core.
Bob will not disappoint our gang of thieves in the park, assuming they show up. We will go to the park to thank them for the good time last evening and for participating in our film, and concede defeat in the great steal-off that never was.
Our director is fine with this decision. Crew and cameras are packed into the van; Bob and I are put in a taxi. We meet in the park. Bob paces, still somewhat conflicted. He wrongly accepted this dare in a feverish party atmosphere; but he is not a man to go back on his word, either. Not even to a band of crooks.
Maybe they won’t show up. Then Bob will be off the hook. Of course they’ll show up. Just like they did for the demo in this same park weeks ago, and yesterday’s dinner party. Bob paces in the shadow of the kiddie rides.
Frank zooms up on his motorcycle, grinning. He doesn’t know if the others will come; Andy’s not too reliable, he says. After a few minutes of chat, Bob swings his leg over the bike, wanting to putt around the park. Frank first pushes his helmet on Bob, and ensures that it’s safely fastened.
By the time Bob returns, Ed, Marc, and Andy have arrived. The regrouping of the party gang revs up the mood a few notches and distorts reality once again. The thieves are eager to pit themselves against the stage professional, and their enthusiasm is contagious. The laughter and excitement rise. Then talk turns to location.
“On the buses, of course,” they say in unison, “that’s where we work!”
“How about the market,” Bob suggests. He’s hoping for an environment in which he’d feel a little more control. A place with a large number of potential victims so he can pick just the right one, in just the right situation.
“No, another group is working there today. We don’t want to ruin their day. The bus!”
Somehow it was agreed. It was also agreed that all items would be returned to their owners. Certainly we could not be involved in stealing things for real; not even in accompanying known thieves while they commit criminal acts. All pickpockets, Bob included, would take, display, and return or replace ill-begotten gains.
Again we are a large group. Four thieves, Bob and I, and a crew of five. The eleven of us cross the park and board the next bus.
What happens next is—is—well, I’m very sorry but I can’t say. I will tell you that it is the climax of the film. It is beyond the dinner with thieves in excitement, fascination, and entertainment value. The added element of danger looms large. The speed in which events occur, the drama, and the revelations to us all combine to create lifetime impressions for all of us. Perhaps for you, too, when you see the film.
I know it’s mean to leave a cliffhanger. I admitted in part one of this narrative that I’d be compelled to leave out much good stuff. I’m sorry. But let’s go on.
Two hours later we regroup in the park. There’s been a little one-upmanship between Frank and Andy, a kind of battle using warmth-charisma-speed-guts-and-raw-skill. No hard feelings—it was all in fun. But which of them will be the pickpocket face of this city?
We’re debriefing now. Interviews in the park with the big Red camera back on its tripod and Michele translating while responsible for impeccable sound.
These men are thieves—criminal scavengers—but they are also poets. On camera Andy says:
“Bob, what we do is the same, but we are different. You make people laugh. I make people cry.”
This is Part 20 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel. Right. There’s no part 19. The original Part 19 is here.
—Originally posted 10/410 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
Dinner with thieves, continued. Carafes of white wine land on the table. I join Andy and Lou and have beer. Among much laughter, the feast begins, family style. Plates of bruschetta arrive, and large rounds of mozzarella draped in prosciutto. Andy stands, carves the cheese, and serves everyone. Before he finishes, platters of fried items are placed on the table. Fried cheese, fried mashed potatoes, fried fishballs on sticks, fried squid, fried octopus. Before anyone begins, all glasses must clink all other glasses. Then men stretch across the table, serving themselves and each other with their hands. Ed puts handfuls of crisp-fried squid on my plate, and squeezes a lemon over it all.
Bob and several of the pickpockets are standing again, clowning around and swiping stuff. Watch me! No, wait—try it this way! Our plates are cleared and fresh ones laid down. The room is thick with smoke and loud with laughter. Ed is taking pictures with his mobile phone, or maybe he’s taking video. Bowls of stewed octopus come, and others heaped with steamed mussels. Bob borrows someone’s lit cigarette and pushes it though a handkerchief—no hole!—no burn! The men love it. More beer, more wine, more bread… Bob calls for dessert—”maybe some fruit.” The thieves laugh. Not yet! We have more courses coming!
Michele is translating for six pickpockets and Bob, as fast as he can. In such demand, he sometimes forgets he’s also sound recordist for a big-time film and someone has to remind him: “Michele, the boom!” I make a little conversation with Ed, on my left, but since I don’t have a translator, I mostly just observe.
A huge platter of pasta comes, covered with buttery mussels and a variety of clams. Its fragrant steam masks the cigarette smoke for a few minutes. It’s a work of art. The pasta is thick and chewy, the clams sweet, garlicky, divine. This dish, served in the den of thieves, is my favorite of all the spectacular meals enjoyed in our host city. It pains me to withhold credit where credit is due. I want to shout the name of the restaurant, and the city we’re in. I will… later. [Naples!]
There’s serious eating for a while. This is food to pay attention to, and these men are no strangers to fine cuisine. Another platter is added to the table, this one heaped with shell fish, crustaceans, and fish. Really, it is too much. Yet Ed is popping baby squids into my mouth with his fingers, and I’m enjoying them. There is some metaphor here—something about the fingers of a thief being exempt from all rules.
The men rise for more demonstrations. Bob swipes the restaurant owner’s wallet, then Andy shows how he can take cash without removing the wallet. Finally, they get to that special front pocket technique, unique to this city. Andy crushes against Bob, as if on a lurching bus. Frank holds Bob in place from the other side. Andy removes bill after bill from Bob’s front pocket, handing them off to Marc. Then Andy turns and skulks away. Playing along, Bob shouts “who took my money!” Marc passes the cash back to Andy, who presents it to Bob with a half bow and hand up in apology. Bob accepts the cash and Andy departs.
Left: Andy takes cash from Bob’s front pocket. Right: After Bob’s accusation, Andy returns the cash—but his left hand palms half of it in a practiced short-change move.
“We return the money when we have to,” he explains, “but it’s never the same amount.” Exactly like a magician, he has palmed half the cash before returning it. The victim never counts it on the spot. Andy grins hugely, full of pride.
Lou, now retired, sits out most of the demonstrations, but can’t help getting into the action to show his own wallet extractions. He rocks the wallet—zig-zags it out. The demonstrations and raucous laughter extend through dessert and beyond; through coffee, through liqueur. Then it’s time for picture-taking. All the thieves want to get between Bob and me for a photo.
There’s a surprise: everyone signs full releases agreeing to be in our film, faces shown. We are ecstatic. The thought of blurring these expressive, lively faces was distressing. Now these men, the true stars of our pickpocket documentary, will be laid bare; not only their identities, but their emotions, their humanity.
And there’s a challenge. The pickpockets have admired Bob’s steals, but insist their work is different. Can he perform in their world? Has he got the heart? By that they mean the guts—the nerve. They summons Bob to a test. We’ll meet in the park. Tomorrow.
This is Part 18 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.
—Originally posted 10/210 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
Dinner with thieves. It’s 3:00. The film crew’s still perfecting camera angles, lighting, and table arrangements. I’ve taken my seat as requested, so cameras can be adjusted behind me.
I’m antsy. Bob’s irritated. All invitees arrived on time at 2. They’ve been asked to wait in a nearby café. But for how long? They’re our guests and I’m feeling rude.
The restaurant has closed to the public. Its owners and staff stand in the back, arms crossed, unsmiling. Its lighting has been draped with black or white fabric and our own lights have been arranged on large stands. My eyes bounce from the frenzied crew to my watch to the prominent tanks of live seafood bubbling noisily. Sound man Michele frowns at the hum but, as a homeboy, he knows he can’t ask the restaurant owner to turn off the vital air supply to the pricey perishables.
Bob and I were skeptical as the taxi cruised along the unfamiliar streets of this neighborhood. This small restaurant, chosen by Andy, is the best-looking address on the street. Inside, its homey atmosphere is comforting. We can’t help wondering: are the owners relatives?; if not, do they know who today’s guests are?
We thought this gathering would just be a dinner, maybe a party, but it’s more—it’s an ad hoc film set. The crew are now trying to rig a camera to fly over the table. Our producer and official whip-cracker, Kath, is putting on the pressure to open the doors; but sound must be perfect. Lighting and cameras must be just so. I’m wondering if we’ll have any guests at all by the time they’re ready. Finally, at 4:00, the thieves are called in.
The pickpockets arrive, smiling: Frank, and his brother Ed; Andy, and his brother Lou; Lou’s son-in-law Marc; and Clay. Handshakes and hugs all around, as at any dinner party. Then Andy goes straight for Bob’s pockets, feeling him up. With a flourish and a spin, he whips out a wallet from Bob’s breast pocket, laughing. To complete the charade, he hands it off to Marc, who skulks away. The room cracks up. Applause.
Frank has dressed for the occasion, in a purple silk shirt. When we first met him on the bus he was clean-shaven. The next day in the park he signed a release agreeing to be in our film. Now he has a mustache. Has he grown it as a disguise? For a debonaire film-star look? I forget to ask him.
This is Part 17 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.
—Originally posted 10/1/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
Anticipation. Frank has RSVPed by email, with enthusiasm. But what about the others? Will they come to our dinner? I wonder about the restaurant chosen by Andy. Is it owned by a relative? Is it a regular thieves’ den? Will the food be appetizing and safe to eat? Is it a dive, or has he taken advantage of our offer to select an outrageously expensive place?
It’s in a rough neighborhood, is all we are told. Later, our crew go there to scout the lighting needs and see how they’ll set up cameras, but the place is closed.
At the dinner, we hope to exchange pickpocketing techniques. Bob is particularly interested in learning the moves involved in a slow, steady extraction from the front pants pocket. To be on the safe side, we decide to buy a pair of pants with the kind of pocket we know will work.
We go shopping, camera crew in tow. And given the neighborhood, given the mass of equipment that surrounds us on this excursion, we have police protection. Not one, but two cops escort us into the alley of cheap clothing, where we find what we think are the perfect pants. Michele shouts as a man runs toward Van, who has the Red on his shoulder; Van can only see what’s in his frame. One of our cops steers the man away.
Waiting for the dinner, we feel we must stay off the buses. We don’t want our pickpocket friends to think we’re looking for their competitors. Neither do we want to infringe on their work—we’re not law enforcement, we remind ourselves. This city could put a dent in thievery if it wanted to, but criminal activity is an innate and intrinsic part of society here; our values are outsiders’ ethics.
We feel it’s safe, so-to-speak, to research another territory. We make a morning trip to a huge outdoor market where we’re told a few female pickpockets work plucking wallets out of women’s purses. Bob and I wander the aisles of clothing, shoes, hardware, luggage, housewares, and electronics. I’m totally, naturally, distracted by the shoes—of top quality and bottom price. A fabulous pair of tall, lace-up boots costs €25, about $30—10% of regular retail! I want to try them on but I’m supposed to be thiefhunting. Our crew is following us with their hidden cameras. Kun is using an exposed Canon D5 for stills, but it also shoots gorgeous video. We have undercover police guards tailing us at the ends of each aisle. Nothing happens. I try on shoes, I set down my purse, I turn my back on it. Nothing. No takers.
Back in the police office we dissect our failure to attract thieves. Kun’s camera was too obvious, the police say. Shouts were heard warning of cameras. The books containing hidden cameras were held unnaturally, raising suspicion. My purse was carried too carelessly, they say, no local woman would hold it like that.
While we’re debriefing in the police office, three separate victims come to report thefts from their purses. The thieves are there. They’re working. But they’re savvy, and they don’t like me as a victim.
The market is closing now; each vendor is packing up and loading boxes onto trucks. Our dinner with thieves is nearing.
This is Part 16 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.
—Originally posted 9/29/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
Thieves find us, more. It was a big day for us, and for the whole documentary team. The lowlifers stealing Bob’s wallet, finding Marc and Andy on a bus, catching up on a few years with Andy at a café, then making plans for a big dinner.
I haven’t mentioned that somehow during the day, Bob’s wallet really did disappear, and it isn’t clear how that happened. Did Marc or Andy take it? Could it have been the third man with them, whom we didn’t recognize and lost track of in the excitement? Or was it our own film crew, who never replaced the wallet in Bob’s pocket after filming those pickup shots?
In any case, it’s gone. This upsets Bob, because he’s lost that very wallet hundreds of times in our thiefhunting exploits, and he’s always gotten it back. Now the wallet is gone.
Michele’s on the floor with his sound equipment so as not to be seen in the mirrors.
To relax and clear his head, Bob goes for a long shower. From the bathroom he calls me. “Go get the crew. I want to share my thoughts on the day. They can film in here if they want to, I don’t mind.”
They bring the big old Red into the steamy bathroom. Director of photography, film director, and sound man all in the bathroom, shifting angles to avoid seeing themselves in the mirrors. Bob’s in the clear glass shower, water pouring off him, explaining the meaning of that damn wallet, its loss, and how a shower calms him.
This is too good. Van gets one more shot with another camera.
After Bob’s shower, we sit on the bed talking a little more to the cameras. It’s late. I’ve got my computer and I check email for the last time before bed. And… there’s an email from Frank. Email from a pickpocket!
It was a long and heartfelt letter and, even with a rough google translation, we could sense the warmth and charm Frank was trying to express. I’m sure Frank won’t mind that I quote this short poetic bit:
I know perfectly well that to touch the soul you can impress both the astonishing perception that sharpens our satisfaction, even if our directions are very different. Yours can be a funny show, quite surreal. but you may feel sick from the fleeting moment of reality that is reflected in my ever infinite talent.
After a long, frustrated account of the city’s political and criminal problems, Frank writes: “I believe that here it is becoming worse. Who would not want to hold a secure job and live a life of tranquility?” Then suddenly, a sentence that had me on the floor laughing. “Dear Bob, I’m a bit pathetically away from our subject…” Frank’s main point was to confirm our restaurant plans. He was politely RSVPing.
This is Part 15 of THE MAKING OF OUR NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC DOCUMENTARY, PICKPOCKET KING. The film is about us, Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent. We are “thiefhunters in paradise.” The paradise we chose for the story is the warm and wild city of Naples, Italy, home to the world’s best pickpockets. The documentary premieres December 2 at 8pm ET/PT on the National Geographic Channel.
—Originally posted 9/28/10 and soon thereafter password-protected at the request of the producer.
