Search for purpose drives Roofman
Between 1940 and 1944, writer-director Preston Sturges produced a string of classics that were, and remain, an unprecedented success among Hollywood filmmakers. The Lady Eve, Sullivan’s Travels and Hail the Conquering Hero were among the movies made during this period, each of them featuring a plot conceit the director returned to repeatedly. His protagonists were often forced or decide to masquerade as someone else, and in doing so, discover the person they were meant to be or come to terms with their own failings as a result.
I bring all this up because I was struck by the similarities of Sturges’ work on Derek Cianfrance’s delightful Roofman, a fact-based dramedy that inadvertently draws from the same narrative well of the classic filmmaker. Purported to be “based on actual events and terrible decisions,” the movie’s tone seems taken from the 1940s as well, the mood never too serious, one in which this stranger-than-fiction story plays out as a bit of a lark, though it ultimately has real-world consequences.
Channing Tatum takes on the titular role, that of Jeffrey Manchester, a directionless Army veteran who finds a unique way to provide for his family. Gifted with the ability to make connections from the most minute details, he notices that each McDonald’s restaurant is constructed in the same way, and they all contain the same design flaw. A vulnerable spot in the roof of each of these buildings allows him to cut through it and drop in, which allows him to wait for said restaurant’s manager to show up in the morning and allow him access to the contents in his safe. He manages to pull this off 45 times before he’s caught.
Sentenced to 45 years in prison, Manchester’s desire to be reunited with his family gets the best of him and eventually he breaks out. On the run, he uses his breaking and entering skills to seek refuge in a Toys R Us store. This ends up being a fortuitous choice as it contains multiple places he can hide and, once he determines how to turn off the security cameras, he has the run of the place at night.
Six weeks pass, boredom sets in, and Manchester gets the bright idea of setting up baby monitors and small cameras around the store, so that he can eavesdrop on all that occurs. In doing so, he comes to admire the tenacity of recently divorced, single mom Leigh Wainscott (Kirsten Dunst), observe the bullying tactics of the store manager Mitch (Peter Dinklage) and begins to hatch a plan to re-enter daily life.
It’s an absolutely absurd premise, yet further research and archival footage played during the end credits concerning Manchester’s exploits confirm that most of what we witness is true. The script by Kirt Gunn and Cianfrance grounds this outlandish story by rendering Manchester, Wainscott and the rest as vulnerable people striving to succeed in an uncertain world. Though each puts their best foot forward, their inner flaws prevent them from acting in their own best interests. As a result, we can’t help but relate to them, coming to care for them even though they continue to stand in their own way. This makes the inevitable unhappy ending all the more difficult to take.
Tatum is out of his comfort zone here and rises to the challenge. While he’s played well-meaning lunkheads before, he approaches Manchester differently, utilizing a sense of stillness that leads to a more introspective performance. It isn’t an effortless turn – there are times when you can see him straining to stay rooted in one spot – yet this works to his advantage as well, conveying a restlessness and vulnerability to his character. And while I never would have guessed pairing him with Dunst would work, there’s a surprising spark between them, their interactions playful and genuine.
While Manchester may have been acting with the best of intentions, it’s his self-destructive tendencies that ultimately do him in. Only by assuming another identity does he come to realize his behavior is damaging others and what needs to be done to stop this. In the end, despite Roofman’s at times whimsical approach, the tragic nature of Manchester story shines through, the irony being that he never applied his ability to notice small details to himself. In Theaters.
Johnson digs deep in moving Machine
Though it would be tempting to do so, brushing aside Benny Safdie’s The Smashing Machine as mere Oscar bait is a mistake. Bearing all the tell-tale signs of such a product, there’s more at play than simply shameless promotion. Granted, it does feature Dwayne Johnson in a role tailor-made to turn the heads of those who bestow awards and revolves around an underdog story, an element that tends to appeal to them as well. But there’s more at play in this character study masquerading as a sports film. Safdie’s script takes a deep dive in examining a man with an identity crisis, constantly at war with himself.
Mark Kerr was a pioneer in the brutal sport of mixed-martial arts. A hulking, mountain of a man, he stood 6 feet 3 inches tall and weighed 260 pounds. Though imposing in stature, there was a gentle side to him, one he kept contained whenever he stepped into the octagon to compete. A two-time champion, his reputation preceded him, and he was much in demand. The film begins in 1999 with Kerr (Johnson) negotiating to be in “Pride 7,” an international tournament in which he is set to appear, with an undefeated record. A previous injury nags at him physically and mentally, which is exacerbated by the arrival of his girlfriend, Dawn Staples (Emily Blunt). Needy and manipulative, she distracts Kerr with self-serving drama, leading to his first defeat and a sense of self-doubt that sends him on a downward spiral.
The bulk of the film deals with Kerr’s attempt to put this setback behind him, a typical setup for a myriad of sports stories. However, there’s a conspicuous absence of training montages propelled by a blasting inspirational soundtrack in Safdie’s approach. Employing a handheld camera and using ambient sound, he creates a fly-on-the-wall aesthetic that creates a sense of intimacy that is, at times, uncomfortable to be a part of. The result is a more sincere portrait of the man, that no amount of cinematic bombast could duplicate. Witnessing Kerr deal with a substance abuse problem, repeatedly break down and muster the courage to continue has more import as a result.
Scenes depicting the continued strife between Kerr and Staples are more effective due to this approach as well. As we see her repeatedly push his buttons and his resistance to confront her, a palpable sense of dread develops. Safdie casts the viewers as witnesses to the emotional abuse on display, our frustration building due to our inability to intercede, our sympathy growing for Kerr as a result.
The film benefits greatly from the presence of genuine MMA fighters, chief among them Ryan Bader appearing as Kerr’s close friend and confidant Mark Coleman. Though he has never acted in a film before, he shares the screen with Johnson and Blunt with a sense of confidence that’s surprising and delivers a sincere performance. Blunt continues to impress, delivering the kind of assured turn we’ve come to expect from her. She embraces Staples dysfunction to great effect.
As for Johnson, he seizes this opportunity to show he’s more than just an action hero, giving an unexpectedly nuanced and poignant performance. To close observers, this should come as no surprise. He’s also contributed a sense of genuineness to the many genre exercises he’s made his name in. Throughout Machine, he steps back, putting his physicality to the side, employing his expressive eyes and subtle movements to convey Kerr’s inner turmoil. Johnson has always been a commanding presence, but he arrests our attention through different means here, allowing us to concentrate on what makes Kerr tick rather than being overwhelmed by his imposing appearance.
Though the cage matches Kerr participated in may be Machine’s selling point, it’s the internal battles he wages that make the film worthwhile and unique. In many ways, far more damaging than the physical injuries inflicted, the conflicts in his mind and soul are what ultimately took their toll and it’s to Kerr’s great credit that he had the tenacity to overcome them. In Theaters.
Candy documentary Like Me a loving tribute
You’d be hard-pressed to find a more laudatory documentary than Colin Hanks’ John Candy: I Like Me, a well-meaning, at times fawning, examination of the late comedian. Utilizing the usual tools in the documentarian’s toolbox, the director does a fine job of not simply recounting his subject’s life but also, through anecdotes provided by his family, painting a portrait of the man many of his fans never really knew. The result is a tribute that attempts to explain just what made Candy tick, the revelations it contains only increasing our admiration for him. And while there are some surprises regarding Candy, none of them are salacious. By all accounts, the man was a saint among men, always leading with kindness, his acts of generosity never self-serving.
Hanks opens the film with footage of Candy’s 1994 funeral, a massively attended, somber affair, replete with family members, celebrities, fans and hangers-on. With Dan Ackroyd’s heartfelt eulogy playing beneath it, a montage of pictures and film footage plays, showing us the actor’s development over his 44 years, citing his personal and professional triumphs. Of course, this summing-up does not tell the whole story, and Hanks sets out to fill in the gaps, a la “Citizen Kane,” by using a variety of eyewitnesses to give us a more complete account of his subject.
It wouldn’t be fair to criticize the filmmaker for taking such a standard approach, yet once we come to know Candy more intimately, there’s a sense he deserves something more. Orphaned when his father died on his fifth birthday, which is Halloween no less, Candy was said to have assumed the role of caretaker at an early age. Apparently, this was a mantle he placed upon himself his entire life. One anecdote after another from co-workers and associates recount his acts of kindness and his constant concern for others. While most actors hardly pay attention to those working behind-the-camera on their films, Candy would often inquire how they were and make sure their working conditions were more than adequate. This extended to his co-stars as well, Macauley Culkin recounting how he tried to look out for him when it was obvious his father wasn’t.
His account of his experiences with the actor is typical. Steve Martin, Martin Short, Andrea Martin, Catherine O’Hara, Bill Murray, Conan O’Brien and many others relate stories of a similar nature, each recounting an act of kindness or consideration Candy was responsible for. Acting in this manner seemed to be second nature for him.
However, when we hear from Candy’s wife, Rosemary, and his children, Chris and Jennifer, we’re privy to a far more personal portrait that sheds significant light on what motivated him and his later years. Self-esteem issues regarding his appearance, his refusal to see a doctor, though his health was worsening, and the specter of his father’s early death at the age of 36, which haunted the actor, all seemed to contribute to a late-life flurry of activity as well as his own early demise at 44. Though it becomes repetitive, Me ultimately proves to be a worthy testament to a well-loved man as well as an, at times, revelatory examination of his career. Obviously, Candy was a man who cared for others more than he cared for himself. The fact that he seldom showed himself the same kindness and concern he displayed for friends as well as strangers, is a profound tragedy, as the world is in dire need of more spirits such as his. Streaming on Apple TV+.
This article appears in October 9-15, 2025.
