Regarding The Death of Robin Hood (now on HBO Max): Welp, this ain’t Errol Flynn. Or even Russell Crowe. Pig and A Quiet Place: Day One director Michael Sarnoski’s take on the robbing-from-the-rich-to-give-to-the-poor English folk legend flips the character from hero to outlaw status, with Hugh Jackman playing him as a hunk of beef jerky whose mind has become a teeming nest of pain and regret. Which is to say, this is far from an upbeat action movie, but maybe a fresh riff on Mr. Hood will be compelling.

The Gist: Here we have a clear-cut case of the cycle of violence: Robin Hood (Jackman) has killed people, and the people who loved them want to kill him while seeking revenge, but he kills them first. So much for the myth of his virtue, which in this telling is a smokescreen for the fact that he has remorselessly murdered not just men, but women and children, too, for no other reason than because he can. We meet him as he makes his way across a bitter, windswept landscape that’s just as brutal as he is. His body is gnarled and scarred; to say he’s weathered is to say Antarctica is lightly dusted with snow.

After a nasty, nasty, nasty illustration of his capabilities, Robin finds himself reunited with old pal and fellow ruthless slayer Little John (Bill Skarsgård), who’s trapped in his own cycle of violence: His wife and daughter are being held by vengeance-seekers who he and Robin wronged in the past, and he needs help. And what follows is a sequence of the most Miserable instances of Miserable Shit you’ll see in a movie all year. Let’s just sum it up as a gruesomely medieval display of pain and harm. It’s 1247 AD, after all.

The fallout finds Robin gravely injured, so John drops him at a priory on an island, where Sister Brigid (Jodie Comer) nurses him back to health, unaware that he’s Robin Hood, the rootin’-tootin’ mean-as-hell son-of-a-bitchin’ cold-blooded killer. He passes himself off as a rando named Randolph, and forges tender friendships with Brigid and a head-to-toe bandaged man known only as The Leper (Murray Barlett) — and, crucially, has plenty of time to reflect on his countless malfeasances. Just when we wonder if he’ll end up in the same space as redemption, to the island arrives Little John’s young daughter Margaret (Faith Delaney), in a state of shock, followed by a young man (Noah Jupe) who just lost an eye — and we know what Robin doesn’t, that this guy’s likely out for revenge. You can never escape your past, it seems.

What Movies Will It Remind You Of? Combine The Northman with Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven – a major reference point – and you’ve essentially got The Death of Robin Hood. 

Performance Worth Watching: Jackman follows an ebullient performance in Song Sung Blue with a very Logan-esque instance of intense, extended brooding. It’s not quite a complex performance, but it’s a highly watchable one, and you can’t ding the guy for lacking actorly range.  

Sex And Skin: One non-graphic scene of self-pollution; butt shots of Jackman and Skarsgård as they rub dirt all over themselves in order to mask their male musk prior to a sneak attack.

Our Take: Not everyone is going to be up for a two-hour mopefest punctuated with instances of unflinching slaughter, and Sarnoski doesn’t have much to add to Unforgiven’s rumination on human cruelty and the pointlessness of violence. But Sarnoski’s screenplay feints at narrative convention by delivering Mel Gibson-level sadistic violence early in the film, teasing a reprise, and stubbornly refusing to return for a bloody encore. It’s not the visceral payoff you may expect; The Death of Robin Hood has something more poetic — relatively speaking — on its mind. Consider our expectations subverted.

The film’s gloomy atmosphere, enlivened by Pat Scola’s thoughtfully composed cinematography, makes for an absorbing and contemplative watch. The pacing is slow, but intentional, with an emphasis on Jackman’s furrowed-brow closeups and the beautifully rugged landscape of the island; the peaceful surroundings haven’t calmed Robin as much as they’ve prompted remorseful reflection and subsequent self-loathing. Comer is excellent in a somewhat thankless role, and her quiet moments with Jackman draw out the moral complexities of their unusual friendship. Sure, the film is mournful and bereft with navel-gazing, but it leaves us pondering the limits of forgiveness and redemption, that the human condition entertains no absolutes. 

Our Call: The Death of Robin Hood won’t brighten your day, but it may just hold you in its pensive grip. STREAM IT.

John Serba is a freelance film critic from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Werner Herzog hugged him once.