There are filmmakers who make stories bigger than life, and then there are filmmakers who take familiar myths and strip them down until all that remains is the fragile humanity underneath. Michael Sarnoski firmly belongs in the latter category. Ever since Pig, he has shown a remarkable ability to find aching emotional truths inside narratives that initially appear deceptively simple. Whether exploring grief through a truffle hunter searching for a beloved pig or injecting surprising humanity into a large studio franchise with A Quiet Place: Day One, Sarnoski has consistently demonstrated that his real interest lies not in spectacle but in what people carry with them after the noise has faded.
That sensibility makes him an unexpectedly perfect choice to tackle Robin Hood, not as a legend, but as a man. The result is a film that feels like Logan wandered into the world of Pig and decided to spend two hours contemplating mortality, regret, and the emotional cost of violence. That combination will not work for everyone, but it certainly worked for me.
Because The Death of Robin Hood is not interested in giving audiences another heroic retelling of one of history's most enduring folk figures. This is not the charismatic outlaw swinging through forests or the noble thief stealing from the rich and giving to the poor. Instead, Sarnoski presents Robin as a weary, broken man approaching the end of his life, forced to confront the consequences of years spent inflicting violence. What emerges is less a Robin Hood adventure than a meditation on mortality, accountability, and the uneasy relationship between the stories we tell about ourselves and the people we actually become. Sarnoski draws inspiration from the old ballad Robin Hood's Death, and in doing so creates a version of the character that feels almost entirely disconnected from the cheerful folklore many audiences associate with the name. This Robin is not searching for glory. He is searching for peace. Whether he deserves it is another matter entirely.
From its opening moments, the film establishes a tone that is both beautiful and deeply unsettling. Shot on stunning 35mm film, every frame seems coated in mist, mud, blood, and memory. Ireland proves to be the perfect setting for this world. Rolling hills disappear into dense fog. Forests feel ancient and indifferent. The landscape itself seems to be carrying centuries of sorrow. Sarnoski has always had a remarkable visual eye, but this may be his most striking work to date.
The first act is particularly extraordinary, balancing moments of haunting beauty with bursts of shocking brutality. Nobody does brutal quite like Sarnoski. When violence erupts here, it is not exciting or triumphant. It is ugly, painful, and horrifyingly physical. The opening stretch contains some of the most visceral imagery you are likely to see this year, serving as a reminder that legends often leave behind far more victims than songs are willing to acknowledge.
At the center of the film is Hugh Jackman, delivering one of the strongest performances of his career. Comparisons to Logan are inevitable, but they only tell part of the story. Yes, both characters are aging warriors haunted by their pasts. But what Jackman achieves here feels more internal and introspective. This Robin Hood is not simply exhausted. He is spiritually adrift. Jackman plays him as a man whose identity has become inseparable from the damage he has caused. There is an extraordinary sadness in his performance, one that reveals itself through quiet moments rather than grand speeches. He excels at conveying entire histories through a glance or a pause. The film asks a great deal from him emotionally, and he responds with work that feels vulnerable, restrained, and deeply human. I have long believed that Jackman remains one of the most underrated dramatic actors working today, and this performance only strengthens that belief.
Jodie Comer continues her remarkable streak of elevating everything she appears in. She brings warmth, empathy, and emotional complexity to a character who could easily have functioned as little more than a narrative device. Instead, Comer creates someone who feels fully realized, allowing the film's quieter moments to resonate in meaningful ways. Bill Skarsgård also leaves a strong impression, even if I found myself wishing the film had given him more to do. He possesses an unpredictable energy that immediately commands attention whenever he appears.
The entire supporting cast deserves praise as well. One of the most refreshing aspects of the film is that nobody approaches the material with irony. There is no wink to the audience. No attempt to modernize the legend through self-awareness. Every performance is earnest. Every actor commits completely to the emotional reality of the story. That sincerity becomes one of the film's greatest strengths.
What fascinated me most, however, was the film's exploration of mythology itself. Sarnoski seems less interested in whether Robin Hood actually existed and more interested in why people needed him to exist. Throughout the film, stories evolve, shift, and transform. The Robin Hood people celebrate increasingly feels disconnected from the actual man standing before us. The legend becomes a replacement for reality. People continue building upon the myth long after the truth has become irrelevant. There is something both comforting and deeply unsettling about that idea. The film suggests that perhaps history is not simply distorted over time. Perhaps it is actively rewritten by collective need. Robin Hood becomes less a person than a vessel into which generations pour their hopes, frustrations, and fantasies. Whether you find that tragic or beautiful will likely depend on your own perspective.
The film is at its strongest when examining the emotional consequences of violence. Most Robin Hood stories focus on rebellion, heroism, and adventure. The Death of Robin Hood focuses on grief. It focuses on the families left behind, the communities scarred by conflict, and the emotional debt accumulated over a lifetime of bloodshed. Sarnoski repeatedly asks whether redemption is truly possible, but he wisely avoids easy answers. This is not a story about forgiveness. It is a story about reckoning. Robin spends much of the film attempting to understand the ripple effects of actions that have long since become blurred together in his own memory. What may have been life changing tragedies for others often feel like forgotten Tuesdays to him. That disconnect becomes one of the film's most compelling observations about violence and its lasting consequences.
That said, the film is not without its flaws. As much as I admired its ambition and atmosphere, I did find myself struggling with the pacing at times. The middle section occasionally loses momentum, becoming so committed to introspection that the narrative risks standing still. There is an important distinction between stillness and stagnation, and the film occasionally drifts too close to the latter. For all of its thematic richness, there are moments where I found myself wondering whether the story was fully earning its runtime. The emotional ideas remain compelling, but the dramatic progression becomes less certain. Some scenes feel like fragments of a larger, more fully developed version of the film. The screenplay is thoughtful and often beautifully written, but there are stretches where it feels more like a sketch of a great film than the finished article itself.
The final act presents a similar challenge. I admire where the story ultimately arrives emotionally, but I needed one more significant dramatic beat to fully bring everything together. One more confrontation. One more revelation. One more moment capable of elevating the emotional stakes to the level the material seems to be reaching toward. The film never completely loses me, but it never quite reaches the devastating emotional crescendo that feels tantalizingly within its grasp. What makes this frustrating is that nearly every ingredient is already present. The performances are excellent. The themes are rich. The visual language is extraordinary. I simply wanted that final emotional punch to land with greater force.
And yet, despite those reservations, I found myself thinking about The Death of Robin Hood long after the credits rolled. In many ways, it feels like part of an ongoing cinematic conversation taking place between filmmakers such as Michael Sarnoski, David Lowery, and Robert Eggers. These are directors interested in exploring what happens when mythology collides with human frailty. They understand that the most interesting part of a legend is often not the heroics, but the vulnerability buried underneath. This film may frustrate some viewers expecting a more conventional Robin Hood story. It is slow. It is somber. It is stubbornly uninterested in crowd pleasing thrills. But if you are willing to meet it on its own terms, there is something genuinely moving here.
Ultimately, The Death of Robin Hood is not an adventure. It is not a celebration. It is not even really a deconstruction in the traditional sense. It is a lament. A quiet funeral for a man trapped beneath the weight of his own legend. Michael Sarnoski asks what remains after the songs stop being sung and the stories stop growing larger. What remains is regret. Memory. Humanity. And a deeply affecting reminder that sometimes the truth about a person is far more interesting than the myth. Not every aspect of the film works equally well, but its ambition, emotional honesty, and extraordinary craftsmanship make it one of the more fascinating studio releases of the year. It may not be the Robin Hood story audiences expect. But it is certainly one they are unlikely to forget.
The Death of Robin Hood releases in Theaters on June 19, 2026.
