Roofman – Film Review

Derek Cianfrance’s Roofman is a film of contradictions — a crime story that feels tender, a comedy laced with loneliness, and a biopic that turns a real-life oddity into something emotionally resonant. Based on the unbelievable true story of Jeffrey Manchester, a charming yet quietly desperate man who robbed McDonald’s restaurants by crawling through their roofs and later hid for months inside a North Carolina toy store, Roofman is part caper, part existential study. It’s also a sly reflection of the hollow consumer dreams that Cianfrance, the director of Blue Valentine and The Place Beyond the Pines, has long been fascinated by.

Channing Tatum plays Manchester with surprising grace — a man perpetually trying to make life fit the image of a commercial he’s been sold. The film doesn’t glorify his crimes, but neither does it condemn him outright. Cianfrance treats him as a tragicomic figure: a soldier, a thief, and an amateur architect of his own fragile fantasies. Through a blend of wistful humor and blue-collar melancholy, Roofman becomes a portrait of the absurd lengths people go to when chasing meaning in a world that keeps packaging happiness behind glass.

Roofman begins with a brisk montage of Jeff’s “roof jobs” — absurdly clever break-ins that unfold with the rhythm of a slapstick heist movie. Cianfrance and cinematographer Andrij Parekh shoot these sequences with a cool, observational detachment. There’s a tactile joy in watching Manchester move through ductwork, his breath fogging up the lens of his flashlight, or land silently in a playroom full of Ronald McDonald iconography. But rather than playing it as a high-octane heist film, Cianfrance leans into quiet humor and melancholy irony.

Tatum, never better than when he underplays, makes Manchester feel both capable and lost. His performance draws from the emotional restraint he showed in Foxcatcher, but filters it through a gentler, sadder lens. His Jeff isn’t a criminal mastermind — he’s an optimist out of sync with reality. He talks to himself, hums pop songs while crawling through vents, and sincerely believes he’s one good plan away from redemption. There’s something strangely lovable about him, and that moral confusion gives the film its bite.

The story turns when Jeff escapes prison and hides inside a Toys “R” Us. This bizarre, true detail becomes the heart of the film. For months, he sneaks into the toy store at night, bathing in its neon glow, surviving on candy bars and soda. Cianfrance turns this strange hideout into something almost holy — a cathedral of childhood nostalgia, filled with relics of innocence he can never reclaim.

As Jeff makes a secret life among the toys, Cianfrance pushes the film toward his familiar themes of disconnection and illusion. He treats the toy store not merely as a hideout, but as a symbol of consumer fantasy — a space that offers joy without fulfillment. The lighting is soft and dreamlike, giving the aisles an almost spiritual glow. It’s absurd, but quietly heartbreaking.

The supporting cast deepens that mix of whimsy and despair. Kirsten Dunst, reuniting with Cianfrance after The Place Beyond the Pines, plays Leigh Wainscott, a local woman whose loneliness mirrors Jeff’s. Dunst brings warmth and sadness in equal measure, giving Leigh the aura of someone who has been waiting for something to change for too long. Her chemistry with Tatum feels unforced, bittersweet, and a little dangerous — their shared scenes are charged with emotional intimacy and quiet dread.

Peter Dinklage delivers one of the film’s funniest and most human performances as Mitch, the Toys “R” Us manager who begins to suspect something strange is happening after hours. Dinklage plays him with meticulous comic timing and buried compassion, creating a character who feels both absurd and sympathetic. LaKeith Stanfield, meanwhile, grounds the film in something heavier as Steve, Jeff’s old army buddy.

Despite its comedic surface, Roofman fits neatly within Cianfrance’s body of work. His fascination with cycles of failure, fatherhood, and emotional inheritance echoes through every frame. What separates Roofman from his more overtly tragic films is tone — there’s a buoyancy to the absurdity that keeps the story alive. Cianfrance’s camera doesn’t mock Manchester; it observes him with compassion, as if he’s one more dreamer lost in the machinery of late capitalism.

Ben Mendelsohn, in a quietly excellent supporting role as Pastor Ron Smith, represents the film’s moral voice. His interactions with Jeff blur the line between confession and manipulation, religion and performance. Mendelsohn plays Smith as both genuine and opportunistic — a man preaching salvation while wrestling with his own doubt. These moments remind the audience that Roofman is less about crime than about belief: what we choose to believe in when the world stops believing in us.

Cianfrance’s direction thrives on texture. He uses long takes and ambient sound to create a sense of lived-in intimacy. The score, composed by Christopher Bear, is playful yet mournful — a blend of toy pianos, muffled drums, and wistful strings that feel perfectly attuned to the absurd sadness of the story. There’s a rhythm to the film that mirrors Manchester’s dual life: bursts of energy punctuated by long stretches of solitude.

If Roofman falters, it’s in its pacing. At two hours and six minutes, the film sometimes lingers too long in its quieter beats. Certain subplots feel underdeveloped. Cianfrance seems reluctant to tighten the story, perhaps too enamored with its dreamlike quality. While that looseness contributes to the film’s tone, it occasionally blurs the emotional clarity.

Still, the film’s imperfections are part of its charm. There’s something daring about a crime comedy that moves this slowly, that trades adrenaline for introspection. The balance of humor and melancholy doesn’t always work, but when it does, Roofman achieves something rare — a sense of empathy for a man history might otherwise reduce to a punchline.

Tatum’s performance anchors it all. His Jeff Manchester is a man who mistakes hiding for healing, who believes that if he can just stay out of sight long enough, maybe the world will forgive him. It’s a sad, funny, and quietly moving portrayal that ranks among the actor’s best work.

Roofman is a film of strange beauty — part farce, part fable, part study in yearning. Derek Cianfrance takes a story that could have been a quirky headline and turns it into something poetic and melancholic. Through Channing Tatum’s soulful performance and the film’s bittersweet tone, Roofman becomes a reflection of how Americans often measure worth through illusion — whether it’s the glow of a toy store aisle or the promise of a second chance.

It’s uneven, yes, and a bit too long. But it’s also tender, funny, and haunting in its portrayal of a man who lived inside his own fantasy. Roofman may not steal the show outright, but it lingers — like a ghost in the walls, humming a tune from childhood and waiting for the lights to turn back on.