I think I will be hard-pressed to find a cinematic experience more intolerable this year than Michael Sarnoski’s The Death of Robin Hood (2026). Featuring a cast of uninsured folklore tropes in a narrative defined by acute boredom, the film will leave any wayward viewer unchanged and irritable. 

The Death of Robin Hood is the latest entry in an emerging subgenre of films that reinvent centuries old folklore and gothic stories into intricate filmic adaptations. These films are old-timey in setting, intricately stylised in their production and almost always employ title cards and advertising with white Times-New-Roman-adjacent fonts. Think Robert Egger’s Nosferatu (2024), David Lowery’s The Green Knight (2021), Del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025) or even Chloe Zhao’s Hamnet (2025). These directors all manage to prescribe a sense of necessity and inherent justification to their reimaginings, giving viewers a reason to tune into narratives already ingrained into the fabric of storytelling. Sarnoski tries to mimic this effect in The Death of Robin Hood, but spectacularly falls short of his predecessors.

These adaptations always run the risk of losing their capacity for emotional connection with their audiences as a consequence of their intricacy. It’s easy for a director to get lost in their craft and for their theming to become secondary to the technical elements of the production. Some of our best working filmmakers are able to expertly toe this line, Zhao’s Hamnet for instance manages to balance meticulousness with a harrowing outpour of emotional expression. Sarnoski’s Death of Robin Hood seems to entirely forget that it’s actually a film rather than a gothic YouTube short in the earliest minutes of its runtime. This film is so painstakingly concerned with its visual presentation. Sarnoski attempts to replicate Eggers’ sprawling wide shots and unflinching depictions of violence to no end. This replication is exactly where this film’s central problem reveals itself, there is simply no reason that Sarnoski needs to be telling this story and the only way he can attempt to do so is by harkening his viewers back to watching experiences of a higher calibre. 

Admittedly, I had a relative degree of bias going into this film that has perhaps continued to influence my opinion of it. I am of the opinion that Hugh Jackman has almost never turned out a convincing or effective performance, and his fame is a fluke of such magnitude that the course of human history has been irrevocably altered as a consequence. His performance in The Death of Robin Hood is staggeringly lacklustre, Jackman’s attempt at playing a weathered vigilante is no more convincing than a lifelike marionette would be in the role. The actor certainly underwent a distinct visual transformation, but his physicality is about the extent of his characterisation. For a film revolving around the inner world of Robin Hood, Jackman provides his viewers with little to no reason to understand his performance as a character in a film rather than an unnerving piece of interpretative dance.

It is of course unfair to solely hold Jackman accountable for the shortcomings of this film, as much of the blame is in the hands of writer/director Michael Sarnoski. It’s unfortunate that this film was the product of Sarnoski’s first venture into high-budget original filmmaking, as his previous work with indie horror Pig (2016) and prequel A Quiet Place: Day One (2022) were actually remarkably promising. The director proved he had an adept hand in the horror genre and a very capable understanding of tone, both of these films seemingly indicating a bright future ahead for the filmmaker. The Death of Robin Hood perhaps suggests that even the most promising debuts should not be rewarded with sole creative control over subsequent projects. Sarnoski’s real shortcoming here is his screenplay—it drags, alienates and fails to provide viewers with any tangible reason to care about what’s unfolding before them. 

Films like The Death of Robin Hood are not the ultimate issue facing contemporary Hollywood. Despite its shortcomings, the film does at least attempt a certain degree of individuality—it remains far more compelling to tune into it than another entry in a blockbuster franchise whose cultural value has long worn off. Sarnoski is reaching for greatness, but with this entry into his canon offers up something entirely adjacent to his goals. He’s not reinventing a story but following a proven blueprint for reinvention—without an increased degree of artistic relevance it’s difficult to see where he can proceed from this misstep.