The Death of Robin Hood

This “Robin Hood” transitions into contemplative, philosophical registers while never slacking in suspense. It is, at its core, a redemption story, simple in persuasive ways yet richly complicated by difficult personalities and atrocious revelations. Coincidences that would seem narratively convenient in lesser narratives are imbued with a classical feeling of fate.

Bold, brutal yet surprisingly sensitive, it’s about as far away from Errol Flynn’s Technicolor tights or Kevin Costner’s mullet as you can imagine.

The Death of Robin Hood isn’t revisionist history — it’s a history of revisionism. One that fittingly creeps further into fiction with every claim it makes towards “the truth,” as Sarnoski’s ultra-austere effort to cut through a millennium of myths can’t help but create a hard-to-swallow fable of its own along the way.

The brooding pace and relative silence that characterize writer-director Michael Sarnoski’s The Death of Robin Hood is more evocative of his standout debut film Pig than it is his far more mainstream A Quiet Place: Day One, making this elegiac but brutal period piece his most niche and least accessible film yet. Still, its heady mix of mournful drama and murderous action certainly distinguish it from the litany of other Robin Hood films in existence.

Hugh Jackman’s take on a fabled friend of the poor may empty his veins, but the film might have meant more had he spilled his guts.

It’s easy enough to admire the evident technical merits, yes, but difficult to find any element that invites a viewer into the specific, soulful experience of the characters. As The Death of Robin Hood circles the obvious ending, the main point of reflection it invites is the missed opportunity to flesh out this world with a level of detail on par with its ambitions.

Oddly pretentious, this is one of those annoying films that drones on about the weight and importance of storytelling rather than telling a weighty or important story.