The Last of Robin Hood

It's Kline who anchors the movie, swan-diving into Flynn's complexities without making excuses for him.

Kline sinks his old smoothie teeth into the part of Flynn, but is careful not to draw blood too easily. The man’s pathetic nature, after all, doesn’t spring from his movies. (Flynn worked right up to his death, in 1959.) It’s deeper than that, but also more shallow. Walking that knife’s edge is a trick. Kline finds exactly the right path.

Instead of a cautionary tale, they've looked at Flynn's life through rose-colored glasses.

The story comes to feel mild (and incomplete) in its tempered nostalgia.

The movie veers between disapproval, farce and something uncomfortably close to envy, with a trio of game performances barely holding things together.

Ultimately the movie feels like an empty exercise. Sure, it’s a cautionary tale about the pitfalls of fame. But when the one figure most worthy of our sympathy is nothing more than a beautiful blonde robot, what’s the point?

The problem — and wow, it's a big one — is that none of these actors have material firm enough to shape into a bona fide performance.