It's impossible to watch The Death of Robin Hood and not think of Logan. Both films star Hugh Jackman, and both mar his leading-man good looks with old age makeup, scars, and mangy facial hair. In each, he plays an anti-hero whose legend is one of noble heroism but whose reality is a trail of senseless carnage. And in both, his withered humanity is revived by protecting an orphaned girl. In this comparison, The Death of Robin Hood only suffers. 

Logan co-writer and director James Mangold created an emotionally rich drama, punctuated by breathtaking action sequences that showed new potential for superhero films viewed through a revisionist lens. The Death of Robin Hood's writer/director Michael Sarnoski, who has previously made the superb slow-burn thriller Pig and the awful horror prequel A Quiet Place: Day One, pursues a similar goal in re-interpreting the folk legend renowned for robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. But his interpretation lacks complexity, offering in its place much brooding, after a first act overstuffed with truly repulsive onscreen violence. 

There is an attempt at balance, as Sarnoski introduces female characters meant to be a soft and compassionate foil to Robin and his not-so-merry men's brutality. But that feels frustratingly reductive and shallow. 

What is The Death of Robin Hood about?

Set around 1247 A.D., this trudging drama begins on the side of a mountain, where cold winds roar across a treacherously frozen terrain. There, a haggard old man lives determinedly alone. This is Robin Hood (Jackman), an outlaw whose thievery has been praised because of the tales of how he redistributed the wealth to aid the poor. But — as the tagline for the film declares — he was no hero. 

Over and over, any chance this Robin Hood gets, he will grumble that those were lies. He and his Little John (an equally grumbly Bill Skarsgård) robbed, maimed, and murdered so many men, women, and children that he cannot remember their names or faces. So, now, he hides in isolation, apathetically fending off would-be killers who are seeking vengeance for crimes he cannot recall. It's a grim beginning, and it will only get grimmer. 

When Little John returns to him, asking for help in fighting off a family that has stolen his land and kidnapped his wife, Robin begrudgingly agrees, noting they both might die. His tone even suggests that's Robin's wish, to just be over with it all. Still, he'll battle hard for his friend, slaying not only the invading men but also employing his legendary archery skills to shoot a fleeing child through the back of his skull and left eye. 

The sound effects chosen for such moments of violence pull no punches, offering sharp cracks of bone, wretched tearing of flesh, and the squish of internal organs ripped asunder. It's stomach-churningly effective in hitting home how efficient Robin is at delivering carnage. By the end of the first act, not only have Little John's foes been felled but Robin himself has too, following a gross and grisly battle of blood, muck, and fire. To the credit of cinematographer Pat Scola, such scenes of violence are both beautiful and horrid. His shots make clear the agony and injury, but play these fights off a backdrop of blazing fire and night sky. The contrast is dizzying and exciting. But soon, this contrast and conflict will be moved to a far-off island, the colors shifting from brown and orange to grays and radiant blues. 

At an ancient priory, a gorgeous nun called Sister Brigid (Jodie Comer) offers aid to the ailing. She's taken in Robin Hood, unaware of his identity. (He tells her his name is Randolf). As his wounds heal, Little John's only child, Little Margaret (Faith Delaney), arrives on the island, orphaned and traumatized. Though at first Robin only wished to die, and failing that, to escape this blissful place of restoration, he is slowly enchanted by Brigid's compassion and by Little Margaret's thirst for a father figure. Reluctantly befriending a persistent leper (Murray Bartlett), Robin begins to consider if this might be "another life" for him — when yet another vengeance-seeking stranger turns up at the priory. 

The Death of Robin Hood is an unpleasant and cynical slog, despite a promising cast. 

Like Logan, The Death of Robin Hood functions like a revisionist Western, wherein the lifelong gunslinger looks back on his journey and wonders if all the blood he's spilled can ever be washed clean. Put another way, can a man of violence ever become a man of peace? 

Intellectually, there's something interesting in this cliche. However, Jackman's portrayal in The Death of Robin Hood feels like an echo of his achingly poignant work in Logan, but with less rage and thus less energy. Plus, Sarnoski's approach is dull and episodic. Again and again, someone will ask Robin if he recalls a particular act of violence, and he shrugs his heavy shoulders in response, his expression world-weary. And then the person explains how Robin's actions hurt them personally, to which Robin gives an inscrutable stare in response, over and over. 

It's a tedious way to establish Robin's cruelty. More irksome, he only starts to care about the consequences of his actions once he falls for the lovely nun. While Comer is a critically acclaimed actress thanks to her bold and brilliant performances in Killing Eve, The Bikeriders, and The Last Duel, she — like Jackman — cannot elevate Sarnoski's shallow script, which reduces men and women to archaic archetypes. For instance, to illustrate that Sister Brigid has desires beyond being a loving nurse to the sick and mother to the orphaned, Sarnoski includes a bizarre scene where she sneaks off at night to a cave to masturbate by candlelight. How else could he possibly show a woman could be spiritual and sexual? 

Little Margaret is similarly underwritten, existing chiefly to follow Robin like a sullen shadow with the sad eyes of a Margaret Keane painting. Noah Jupe, who earned praise last year for playing Hamlet in Hamnet, is compelling in a brief role as a boy on the brink of a pivotal decision. To Bartlett's credit, he brings some levity as a leper who talks with fearless sass, even though he knows Robin's true identity and wickedness. But with much of his face covered by bandages and, later, rotting prosthetics, his charisma is almost completely swallowed. Essentially, though most of the other characters exist to balance Robin's unrelentingly grim brooding, the balance is off. So, much of the movie is a muck of unrelenting maudlin reflection, undercutting any attempt at hope of rising above. 

Most frustratingly, from beginning to end, I couldn't get a grip on the why of it all. Not why in terms of Robin Hood's cruelty or ruefulness, but why re-imagine a figure upheld as a rebel for fairness and community as one of careless violence, unchecked cruelty, and selfishness? 

Sarnoski's past films were a more successful mix of darkness and light, offering hardened heroes who fought for joy or love, even as they understood full well the world around them was merciless and cruel. Here, however, we start with a protagonist who is merciless and cruel, and the only reason we are given to follow him, to invest in his journey, is that he is played by Hugh Jackman. Beyond that, this deeply cynical spin on the legend of Robin Hood has no discernible message beyond some trite platitude of the power of second chances. Despite its star-studded cast, and a powerful blend of hard-hitting sound effects and jolting on-camera violence, The Death of Robin Hood feels politically, spiritually, and emotionally hollow. 

The Death of Robin Hood opens in theaters on June 19.