Channing Tatum has had one hell of an interesting career over the last several years.
At one point, he was Hollywood’s ultimate “it” boy—fresh off Step Up and 21 Jump Street, with all the raw charisma and dance-floor swagger to suggest a trajectory straight to A-list superstardom. Then the industry clocked his comedic timing and pivoted him toward punchlines over brooding heroes.
Instead of becoming a bonafide comedian, Tatum morphed into Hollywood’s favorite punching bag, the butt of endless jokes about his earnest everyman vibe. It was a rough stretch—allegedly kicking off with a heated on-set spat during Magic Mike’s Last Dance (2023), where he clashed with then co-star Thandiwe Newton over the Chris Rock-Will Smith Oscars slap, leading to her abrupt exit and replacement by Salma Hayek (though Thandiwe Newton later downplayed it as creative differences).
The tabloids feasted, and Tatum’s momentum stalled. He caught a break with Deadpool & Wolverine (2024), finally slipping into the live-action Gambit role he’d chased for over 15 years—a Cajun card-slinging mutant that fans had begged for since the X-Men prequels fizzled.
Though Gambit’s future hangs in limbo amid Marvel’s reboot chaos, Tatum’s back in the saddle with Roofman, a passion project from his production company Free Association. Directed by Derek Cianfrance (Blue Valentine, The Place Beyond the Pines), this Paramount Pictures release tackles the wild true-life tale of Jeffrey “Roofman” Manchester, one of the world’s most affable criminals and his inevitable tumble from folk-hero grace.
In Roofman, Tatum plays Jeffrey Manchester, a former Army Ranger and desperate single dad clawing his way out of post-prison rock bottom. Haunted by mounting bills, a fractured family, and the sting of his own bad breaks after serving in the Middle East, Jeffrey cooks up a scheme as audacious as it is absurd: midnight heists on fast-food joints, scaling rooftops to slice through ceilings and swipe cash-stuffed registers with surgical precision.
His exploits—equal parts military op and whimsical caper—earn him the tabloid tag “Roofman,” turning him into an unlikely antihero for the working stiffs scraping by in ’90s-era America. Baffled cops chase shadows while headlines lionize his non-violent flair, but the law catches up: 45 years for robbery and kidnapping.
Refusing to rot behind bars, Jeffrey pulls off a daring escape—hiding under a prison bus like a scene from a heist flick—and relocates to a sleepy town, blending into the woodwork while casing his next gig. Dodging a relentless detective, he discovers an abandoned loft above a bustling Toys “R” Us. There, amid dusty stacks of Peanut M&Ms, he eavesdrops on the store’s quirky clerks below.
While the world assumes he’s vanished, Enter Leigh Wainscott (Kirsten Dunst), a warm, church-going toy-store clerk and single mom juggling her own quiet heartaches and two daughters (one a surly teen played by breakout Lily Collias). Jeffrey, ever the charmer, poses as a bumbling fool to deflect suspicion, but his walls crumble as he bonds with Leigh and the girls—fixing toys, sharing laughs, and glimpsing the stable life he craves.
What starts as a con blossoms into genuine connection, but Jeffrey’s web of lies strains under the weight of his double life. As the detective’s net tightens and his past sins resurface, he’s forced to reckon with the razor edge between reinvention and self-sabotage. The supporting cast shines: LaKeith Stanfield as a wry accomplice, Juno Temple and Uzo Aduba adding layers of small-town texture, and Peter Dinklage.
Tatum’s undeniable likability is the film’s secret sauce, papering over a narrative that’s more meandering than airtight. He nails Jeffrey’s roguish magnetism—that disarming grin masking a man adrift—proving why he’s one of the few actor-producers who gets it: in an era of IP slop and algorithm-driven dreck, a rock-solid true story is what hooks audiences and keeps moviegoers coming back.
Here, he channels Jeffrey’s greatest weapon (his charm) and fatal flaw (the same charm enabling his cons), portraying a guy who yearns for redemption but barrels toward ruin through one boneheaded choice after another. He doesn’t set out to physically harm anyone—just to provide for his kid—but his deceptions carve emotional shrapnel into everyone he touches: his ex, his daughter, the women who fall for his facade.
It’s tough to fully pity a protagonist who’s no victim of injustice, just his own worst enemy, yet Tatum makes you root for the bastard anyway. The story’s inherent wildness—robbing 45 McDonald’s, holing up in a toy empire for six months—hooks from the jump, and Cianfrance’s grounded touch (with co-writer Kirt Gunn) infuses it with poignant class commentary on post-service struggles and the American Dream’s frayed edges.
Veteran turns from Dunst and Mendelsohn bolster the ensemble cast but the biggest drag is the bloated 126-minute runtime, with a second act that slogs through domestic dramedy beats—awkward family dinners, toy-store hijinks—losing all propulsion like a heist stalled mid-rooftop. It’s a tonal wobble that fizzles into rom-com territory before snapping back for a taut third-act chase.
Still, that finale lands with emotional heft, as Jeffrey faces the ultimate fork: bolt to Venezuela for freedom or stay and surrender, dooming himself to decades behind bars rather than exile from the family he’s finally found. Chickens come home to roost, and it’s a gut-punch choice that elevates the whimsy into something achingly human.
Roofman isn’t Oscar bait—no grand speeches or sweeping visuals—but in a dismal 2025 slate clogged with sequels and superhero fatigue, it’s a breath of fresh, chaotic air. Tatum’s charm offensive redeems the lulls, turning a shaggy true tale into a surprisingly tender riff on second chances and self-inflicted wounds.
It’s not flawless, but damn if it doesn’t remind you why we still need stories this unhinged.
3.5/5
Society Reviews 
Leave a comment