The Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) is coming to a close this weekend, which means downtown Toronto will return to its usual self after its two-week transformation into a cinema carnival. During TIFF, King Street is lined with festival-goers, red carpets unfurl nightly, and audiences applaud with more fervor than sometimes the films deserve.
Getting to Roy Thomson Hall for the premiere of Roofman meant wading through a modest Palestinian protest on King Street; masked, beating what looked like Indigenous drums, and of course, graciously accommodated by a large volume of Toronto Police. Inside, the lights dimmed, and we moved seamlessly from one ritual to another: the land acknowledgement, now packaged as a cinematic short. We have stripped religion from public life, but we still begin our gatherings with liturgy.
The contrast gave way to a full festival spectacle. Director Derek Cianfrance walked on stage with stars Channing Tatum, Kirsten Dunst, Juno Temple, and Lakeith Stanfield, to a packed house buzzing with anticipation. The buzz was half cinephilia, half proximity to Hollywood glamour.
Roofman tells the true story of Jeffrey Manchester, the Army Reserve officer turned burglar who broke into McDonald’s through their roofs and later hid for months inside a Toys “R” Us (for Millennial viewers, the barrage of brands of our youth, from Blockbuster to Tickle-Me-Elmo, creates something of a nostalgic archaeological experience, which I thoroughly enjoyed). It’s a quixotic tale of crime and concealment, stranger than fiction, and on screen it becomes something deeper: a moving love story.
Tatum is magnetic, embodying Manchester with charisma and vulnerability in equal measure. Dunst matches him note for note. Her Leigh is warm, grounded, and the emotional centre of the film. Their chemistry turns what could have been a one-note heist drama into something gentler and more resonant.
Beyond its performances, Roofman excels in its tonal balance. It mixes humour, late-night capers through retail aisles, touchingly awkward bonding with Leigh’s children, with genuine suspense, knowing its protagonist is on borrowed time. But what truly elevates the film is its embrace of human complexity. It doesn’t shy away from Manchester’s flaws—confusion, vulnerability, and desperation—nor does it offer easy redemption. Instead, it leans into what Kant once called “the crooked timber of humanity,” reveling in the reality that no straight thing was ever made from it.
The result is a film that has what much of today’s cinema lacks: genuine humour, palpable tension, and a fearless probe into the messiness of the human condition. Too many films feel engineered to satisfy algorithms or test audiences; Roofman dares to be playful, tragic, and ambiguous all at once. In its contradictions, it feels more honest and more alive.
At a festival built on mythmaking, Roofman offers something rarer: a story that lingers because it refuses to be smoothed over. It doesn’t chase spectacle or perfection, but humanity itself: flawed, yearning, and searching for connection. TIFF will host bigger films this year, and flashier ones too, but few will remind audiences as clearly why we tell stories in the first place: to see ourselves, in all our faults, and still find meaning.
