The faces are eerily familiar. Grizzled and glowing like Rembrandt’s old men, infused with monumental fervor like Eisenstein’s revolutionary heroes, etched in crushing worry like Jacob Riis’s Lower East Side pushcart handlers. Lost in the shadows underneath the noisy Third Avenue El, the men subsist. They drink cheap muscatel or squeeze sterno for its narcotic, deadly juice. They sleep in flophouses for a dime, or take their chances on the street. They tell tales of former, grander lives and vow they’re getting out, but never do — except when they... More >>>