The legend of Robin Hood, a figure synonymous with justice and rebellion, is a story we all think we know. Yet, in Michael Sarnoski's latest offering, The Death of Robin Hood, we're plunged into a far grimmer, more morally ambiguous world than the merry tales of Sherwood Forest. Personally, I find it fascinating how this film takes a beloved, almost archetypal hero and strips him down to his rawest, most unheroic form. It’s a bold move, and one that immediately sets it apart from any conventional retelling.
What makes this particularly intriguing is the film’s embrace of a contemporary relevance that feels almost uncomfortable. With the chasm between the ultra-wealthy and everyone else widening at an alarming rate – we’re now seeing the emergence of trillionaires, a concept that boggles the mind – it’s easy to want Robin Hood to be a symbol of modern-day redistribution. However, Sarnoski defiantly rejects this. His Robin, portrayed by a suitably world-weary Hugh Jackman, is no altruist. He takes, and he keeps. This isn't the Robin Hood who robs from the rich to give to the poor; this is an outlaw haunted by his own actions, running not just from the law, but from the very people he’s wronged. In my opinion, this subversion of expectation is where the film truly begins to resonate.
The narrative kicks off with a jarring intensity, an early scene that immediately establishes the brutal reality of Robin's existence. He's not a romantic figure, but a dangerous one. The subsequent reunion with Little John and an attempt to protect what he considers his leads to a violent confrontation, ultimately landing Robin in a remote priory. Here, he’s nursed back to health by Prioress Brigid, played with her characteristic luminescence by Jodie Comer. What struck me here is the profound question posed by Robin’s recovery: how does one reconcile with genuine kindness when their life has been defined by its absence? It’s a powerful psychological dilemma that the film, at times, grapples with beautifully.
Jackman, in what feels like a comfortable return to his grizzled, protective persona, is effective as the damaged outlaw. There’s a sense that he’s carrying the weight of every bad decision. The film hints at a potential return to his past, with the expectation that chaos will follow him to the priory. And while there are moments of visceral action, reminiscent of the raw intensity of The Northman, Sarnoski seems more interested in exploring the quiet aftermath. From my perspective, this deliberate eschewing of expected action sequences, after showcasing them so prominently, is a conceptually daring choice, though it does leave one feeling a touch frustrated. It’s as if the film front-loads its most conventionally exciting elements only to pull back, leaving a void.
This leads to what I perceive as the film’s central challenge: an underdeveloped emotional core. While Comer is, as always, a captivating presence, her character, Brigid, feels somewhat thinly sketched. The same can be said for Murray Bartlett’s character. The film aims for profound statements, but these grand pronouncements often fall flat due to a lack of sufficient grounding. Too much is left unsaid, creating a distance that prevents a deeper emotional connection with the audience. It’s a shame, because the ingredients for something truly special are undeniably present.
Sarnoski seems to be reaching for the kind of stark, regret-filled conclusion that Martin Scorsese masterfully achieved in The Irishman. The idea that a criminal's life rarely ends in glory but in solitude and regret is a potent one, a quiet admonishment to those who seek grand finales. However, where Scorsese’s bleakness felt earned and inevitable, Sarnoski’s attempt to engineer a makeshift family and force a sense of tragic humanity feels a little contrived. The ending, for a film that often moves at a glacial pace, feels surprisingly rushed, with crucial decisions and reveals not given enough space to truly resonate. It’s a missed opportunity for a more impactful psychological exploration.
Despite these critiques, I must acknowledge the impressive craftsmanship on display. Sarnoski proves himself a skilled director, adept at using the natural textures and sounds of his chosen locations – with Belfast standing in for Cumbria – to create a palpable atmosphere. He’s demonstrated a talent for finding humanity in unexpected places, as seen in his previous works. However, The Death of Robin Hood feels like another valiant effort that doesn't quite ascend to greatness. The film’s unsureness of tone, caught between an epic scope and an intimate chamber piece, is its ultimate undoing. Personally, I believe greatness is within his reach, but this particular journey, while thought-provoking, remains an unfinished one.
What this film ultimately suggests to me is that the enduring power of a legend lies not just in its heroic deeds, but in our willingness to re-examine its core, to find new truths in familiar stories. It’s a reminder that even our most cherished heroes can be viewed through a lens of complexity and human failing, and perhaps, that’s where the most compelling narratives lie.
