RIOTUS

Roofman begins and ends with Jeffrey Manchester (Channing Tatum), an Army vet and divorced father, struggling to find his footing in civilian life. When he can’t buy his daughter a bike for her birthday or earn the respect of his ex-wife as a father, Jeff is humiliated enough to turn to crime. But this isn’t an ordinary man: his observational skills, problem-solving, and memory earn him the nickname “Roofman.” Why? For his method of breaking into fast food joints and big box stores by dropping in from the roof—like a Reverse Santa. As I mentioned, this isn’t an ordinary man, and kindness gets him caught, while his crime spree lands him in prison. Not that prison can hold him. Jeff goes on the run and comically evades the law by building a man-nest in a local Toys “R” Us. And yet again, Jeff proves to be extra-ordinary when he artfully begins a grifter romance with a store employee, Leigh (Kirsten Dunst), a single mother of two. Y’all, this is a wild tale, and some version of this madness actually happened—these are real people. 

Derek Cianfrance’s Roofman leans heavily on the magnetic charm of Channing Tatum, whose performance as Jeff Manchester is the fuel in the tank. Tatum’s likability and easygoing presence make Manchester a sympathetic figure, even as the script leaves much of his internal struggle unexplored. The chemistry between Tatum and Dunst’s Leigh is another highlight. Their very real but dishonest romance is complex, lovely, and tinged with the inevitability of heartbreak. It’s a relationship that grounds us in the movie when it drags, and the combination of writing, performance, and director renders it with a gentle touch, full of tragic desperation contrasted by hope. Roofman’s pull is strongest in their scenes, and in Jeff’s drive to be a clear and present father, because that’s where it feels most true. 

In other places, Roofman is more spoof than a sociological dissection. After the enthralling comedic drama of the first half, the film begins to drag, showing us too much of the surface antics for too long. The story is curiously incurious about the deeper motivations of its characters. We’re shown that Manchester and his friend Steve (LaKeith Stanfield) are skilled veterans who can’t find or maybe maintain legal work, but we don’t know why. Is it mental illness, disillusionment, discrimination, or injury? There’s no real exploration of the backstory driving them toward criminality or the origins of the psychology that eventually causes Jeff’s decline. Roofman is mostly the effects without the cause, relying on the idea of “good guys making bad choices,” until those bad choices overrun them. That disconnect forces us to rely on the toy store Fugitive elements, the romance we suspect is headed for tragedy, and jokes about the workplace and the church that feel more like a poke in the ribs than commentary. 

Still, the duality of Jeff’s life inside the unseen spaces of a Toys “R” Us, contrasted with the scammer life he’s building outside—both of them a form of hiding—carries a poignancy that’s hard to forget. The supporting cast imbues the film with a whimsical energy in Manchester’s odyssey. Stanfield is a dodgy friend, simmering with a hint of menace as Steve. It’s hard to tell whether or not he’s trustworthy. Peter Dinklage is the hilariously petty Toys “R” Us manager Mitch, and Ben Mendelsohn is either morally ambiguous or utterly clueless as Pastor Ron. Uzo Aduba comes in as Eileen, the church’s First Lady, whose brightness could give you sunburn, especially when she’s in matchmaking mode. And in roles closer to cameos, Juno Temple and Tony Revolori add more dimension and texture to the duality of humanity that Cianfranco and writer Kirt Gunn are most interested in excavating. 

Yet, as Roofman plays out, the script doesn’t support these characters with continued compelling storytelling. Much of the action in the second half would have worked better if it happened 30 minutes earlier, and even more of the plot could have been layered to maximize the inherent tension of whether Jeff is headed for redemption or a heel turn. When the story pivots from desperation to destruction, something essential is missing. Like eating a dark chocolate cake that dissolves halfway through and suddenly turns into a well-seasoned steak. Both are good, but give a girl a warning, drop some cake crumbs, let me smell the sizzle of the grill. That tonal shift from cautionary comedy to ugly crime drama is abrupt and thus dismaying, and the mushy middle sets the much stronger beginning and ending adrift. 

If I sound frustrated, you’re right. Roofman gestures at deeper themes—workplace bullies, charismatic church leaders, the idiocy of crime, and the ache of human desperation—but it sags without smooth transitions or the fervor to get really funny or truly messy. Still, Channing Tatum’s puckish vulnerability anchors every scene; Kirsten Dunst radiates heartbreak and hope with equal vulnerability; and the closing nod to the real people behind the story is fascinating. Those things make Roofman worth the watch, even when it stretches its potential too thin. By the time the documentary-styled closing credits roll, Roofman had become a prestige Afterschool Special in my mind—don’t laugh, watch The Wave and you’ll see how good that can be. I’m not alone. Near the end, my guest leaned over and said, “This could have been a made-for-TV movie.”