Roofman: True crime writ lite

Roofman (2025) • View trailer

Four stars (out of five). Rated R, for profanity, nudity and sexual candor

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang • Published in The Davis Enterprise, 10.12.25

Truth genuinely is stranger than fiction.

 

When these events went down, back in 2005, one of the Charlotte Mecklenburg Police Department sergeants told a reporter, “This would make a great movie.” (Check out this detailed recent article in The Charlotte Observer ... after you watch the movie.)

 

Having clandestinely invaded a Toys "R" Us store late one night, and ravenously hungry,
Jeff (Channing Tatum) tries to snatch some candy from an aisle display, mindful of
avoiding detection by the overhead roving security cameras.

He didn’t lie ... and now, two decades later, director Derek Cianfrance has made that film.

He and co-scripter Kirt Gunn boldly assert that “This is a true story.” Credit where due, their film follows the saga’s unbelievably outrageous details with a level of authenticity that’s rare in cinema today (allowing for a few speculative enhancements concerning details never revealed).

 

The wild ’n’ wooly result is anchored by an endearing, awkwardly charming and mildly foolish performance by Channing Tatum, note-perfect as a resourcefully clever guy who’s also a complete idiot.

 

Our first glimpse of Jeffrey Manchester (Tatum) shows him running hell-for-leather through a field, trying to evade we-don’t-yet-know-what, as Tatum’s voice-over explains that — in order to understand what’s happening — we need to back up a few years. Tatum continues to offer narrative commentary as events proceed (and the reason for this confessional also is a brilliant touch, when the film concludes).

 

As introduced properly, in 1998, Jeff is a despondent family man, separated from his wife (Melonie Diaz, as Talena), their 8-year-old daughter (Alissa Marie Pearson, adorable as Becky) and infant twin sons. He doesn’t earn enough to give Becky the bicycle she wants for her birthday, and his “instead of” gift is totally clueless.

 

He later laments the uncomfortable result with longtime best friend and former war buddy Steve (LaKeith Stanfield), who scoffs at Jeff’s inane get-rich-quick schemes, insisting that he play to his strength.

 

“You’re an observer,” Steve points out. “You don’t miss details.”

 

So Jeff observes that all McDonald’s franchises are built to identical specifications, down to where everything is located behind and in front of the order counter. He therefore hammers his way through the roof of one outlet, waits patiently in the restroom for the workers to arrive, and then — masked — orders them into the walk-in refrigerator at gunpoint, before emptying the vault. His manner is polite and cordial.

 

(The actual Manchester estimates that he pulled off between 40 and 60 such robberies throughout the United States.)

Play Dirty: Should be dirtier

Play Dirty (2025) • View trailer

Three stars (out of five). Rated R, for strong violence, relentless profanity and mild nudity

Available via: Amazon Prime

By Derrick Bang

Although director/co-scripter Shane Black gets credit for momentum and audacity, this overcooked crime thriller frequently borders on ridiculous: not quite a cartoon, but darn close at times.

 

Ed (Keegan-Michael Key) pulls up a schematic, to explain a key part of the plan, while
his comrades — from left, Brenda (Claire Lovering), Zen (Rosa Salazar), Grofield
(LaKeith Stanfield) and Parker (Mark Wahlberg) — listen attentively.

A disciplinarian with a ruler also would have been handy, to cut back on the relentless barrage of F-bombs.

Given that this film’s script is based on the “Parker” book series by Donald E. Westlake, we can blame Black, along with co-writers Charles Mondry and Anthony Bagarozzi, for the often silly results here. They’d have done much better by adapting a specific novel.

 

A bit of history:

 

Parker — we never learn his first name — starred in 24 novels by Westlake, writing under the pseudonym Richard Stark: from 1962’s The Hunter to 2008’s Dirty Money. Parker is an amoral and coldly ruthless career criminal: fond of huge scores, and prone to being betrayed by a colleague, thereby setting up a vengeance sub-plot.

 

He has been a popular character in cinema practically from the beginning: played by Lee Marvin (1967’s weirdly existential Point Blank), Jim Brown (1968’s The Split), Robert Duvall (The Outfit), Peter Coyote (1983’s Slayground), Mel Gibson (1999’s Payback) and Jason Statham (2013’s Parker).

 

Now Mark Wahlberg has taken the mantle, and — in fairness — he makes a good Parker. Wahlberg displays the appropriate level of grim callousness, and is credibly physical during skirmishes. He also quotes a portion of Parker’s “code” at one point, elaborating that he prefers to avoid killing people: not out of morality, but because murder invites increased attention from the police.

 

The film opens midway through a heist of the vault at Meadowview Downs Racetrack: a caper that goes south due to an unexpected interruption. The subsequent eye-rolling vehicular chase along the track, amid a race, clearly didn’t involve actual horses, and is an early indication of Black’s tendency toward wretched excess.

 

The sequence also is rather tasteless.

 

Having recovered the score, Parker and his team return to their base, in order to split the proceeds ... at which point the sexy Zen (Rosa Salazar) abruptly pulls out a gun. Parker escapes, although badly wounded. After being nursed back to fighting health — apparently in no time at all! — he sets about finding Zen.

 

Haunted Mansion: Should be repossessed

Haunted Mansion (2023) • View trailer

Two stars (out of five). Rated PG-13, for scary images and dramatic intensity

Available via: Movie theaters

By Derrick Bang 

Disney really needs to stop trying to transform this theme park attraction into anything resembling a coherent film.

 

The best that can be said about this second effort, is that it’s not quite as dreadful as its 2003 predecessor … but that’s damning with very faint praise.

 

Our reluctant heroes — from left, Harriet (Tiffany Haddish), Ben (LaKeith Stanfield),
Gabbie (Rosario Dawson) and Bruce (Danny DeVito) — have just discovered a trunk
in the mansion attic, which contains a book of incantations that'll prove useful.

If director Justin Simien and scripter Katie Dippold set out to make a movie for 5-year-olds, they definitely succeeded; I can’t imagine anybody else having the patience for this interminable dollop of random nonsense.

Indeed, one of the 2003 film’s major problems is equally true here, and the relevant paragraph from my two-decades-gone review can be repeated verbatim, updating only the name of the guilty party:

 

Rather than imaginatively spinning a wholly original yarn, Dippold instead includes everything from the namesake theme park attraction, while trying to cobble up a story after the fact: the ghostly hitchhikers, the dancing ballroom ghosts, the graveyard specters mixing it up with each other, the busts that watch as somebody turns a corner, the paintings that turn skeletal with a burst of lightning, and pretty much everything else.

 

The result isn’t anything approaching an actual story; it’s merely a two-hour commercial for Disneyland. Judging by the dreary manner in which Simien orchestrates this mess, and the lackluster performances by the entire cast, nobody even tried to turn this sow’s ear into a silk purse.

 

Needless to say, this is no way to make a movie.

 

The story, such as it is:

 

Single mom Gabbie (Rosario Dawson) and her 9-year-old son Travis (Chase Dillon), looking to make a fresh start, move to New Orleans and purchase an oddly affordable antebellum-style spread on the bayou, just outside the city. They don’t even make it through the first night, thanks to an unexpectedly ambulatory suit of armor.

 

“And … we’re out,” Gabbie quite reasonably says, with Travis right behind her.

 

Ah, but this mansion’s 999 ghosts don’t want them to leave. No matter where Gabbie and Travis go — hotel, B&B, whatever — they’re pursued by haints that emerge each evening, demanding their return. Which, eventually, they reluctantly do.

The Photograph: Nicely developed

The Photograph (2020) • View trailer 
Four stars. PG-13, for sensuality and brief profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 2.14.20

It has been so long between gentle, sensitively constructed relationship dramas, that it took a minor act of will to get back into their rhythm.

While trying to satisfy his curiosity regarding a famous photographer with humble
Louisiana roots, Michael (LaKeith Stanfield) encounters Mae (Issa Rae), currently
curating an exhibit of the woman's work.

Writer/director Stella Meghie’s thoughtful little film shares its charms without bombast. No car chases or explosions. No gun battles. No ironic catastrophes. No unexpected, life-altering freak accidents. No natural disasters or other indications of Mother Nature’s displeasure. (Well, OK; there is a hurricane. But it serves mostly as a backdrop that heightens the developing intensity between two characters.)

This is just an uncomplicated set of cleverly intertwined love stories between characters separated by time but linked by behavior.

How utterly refreshing.

Meghie has an unerring ear for naturalistic dialog — whether flirty or contemplative — all of which is delivered with persuasive sincerity by her well-sculpted characters. It’s always fun to watch such people fall in love; movies have excelled at that since the medium’s conception (but not so much lately, sad to say).

It’s equally engaging to fret over conflicted, angst-riddled individuals who put head above heart: to wonder whether they’ll see the light and take the offered shot at romance. Or, indeed, if instead we must acknowledge that some folks are destined for a path that doesn’t include the stability (confinement?) of conventional togetherness.

And whether they’ll come to regret such a decision.

Journalist Michael Block (LaKeith Stanfield), a rising star at a New York-based magazine, heads down to Louisiana for a feature piece on how coastal communities are recovering, post-Katrina and Deepwater Horizon oil spill. (Answer: Not well.) His local contact is crab fisherman Isaac Jefferson (Rob Morgan, nicely understated), a modest, easygoing fellow who never felt compelled to abandon the environment in which he grew up.

During an otherwise routine interview, Michael’s attention is drawn to a series of striking, black-and-white photographs, including one of the photographer herself: Christina Eames, a native daughter who broke Isaac’s heart a generation ago, when she left to seek fame and fortune in New York.

Uncut Gems: Badly flawed

Uncut Gems (2019) • View trailer 
One star. Rated R, for pervasive profanity and strong language, violence, sexual candor and fleeting drug use
By Derrick Bang

Ick.

This thoroughly unpleasant waste of time isn’t really a movie; it’s a disgusting experience on par with military latrine duty.

Doing his best to please a first-time customer with plenty of cash, Diamond District shop
owner Howard (Adam Sandler) hauls out a truly hideous example of bling.

Fifteen minutes in, you’ll feel the need for a shower. Once the atrociously self-indulgent, 135-minute slog concludes, you’ll want to scrub off at least two layers of skin.

Class, can we spell l-o-a-t-h-s-o-m-e?

Hollywood tends to be oddly tolerant, when stand-up comics-turned-actors stray into dramatic territory. In fairness, the results sometimes justify such a charitable attitude; we need look no further than Melissa McCarthy, who delivered such sensitively layered work in last year’s Can You Ever Forgive Me?

Alas, Adam Sandler scarcely deserves such a free pass, for this repugnant travesty.

It feels as though every single minute of Uncut Gems is spent watching thoroughly unpleasant characters scream at each other, every other word of such outbursts punctuated by F-bombs and racial epithets. Co-writer/directors Benny and Josh Safdie — New York-based indie filmmakers — give us nobody to like or admire, even in a vicariously mean-spirited sense; nobody among this assortment of mopes, creeps, thugs and degenerates is worthy of God’s precious gift of life.

This film’s media champions — and there are many — apparently are impressed by its “authentic street” attitude, while conveniently overlooking the fact that, Sandler aside, nobody else is remotely credible with what seems to be entirely improvised dialog. The so-called acting is stiff, forced and shrill, defined by little beyond swagger.

Ironically, the best performances come from Keith Williams Richards and Tommy Kominik, as Phil and Nico, a couple of heavies who radiate lethal menace while saying very little. (We’ll get back to them.)

But okay, credit where due: Cinematographer Darius Khondji and editors Ronald Bronstein and Benny Safdie definitely catch the rhythm and flow, hustle and bustle, hurly and burly of New York City’s colorful Diamond District. A-plus for atmosphere.

As for the rest…