Give a legend a rewrite and you'll annoy everyone who grew up on the panto version. Fine by me — folklore is built to be bent out of shape, and The Death of Robin Hood has a decent premise: catch the myth before it calcifies, somewhere in the mud and politics that made it.
Trouble is, the film ambles when it should sprint. Scenes stretch past their natural life, and by the second act I'd started counting exits instead of arrows. Hugh Jackman gives Robin a tired, lived-in weight that suits the old-hero-last-job angle, while Jodie Comer seems to have wandered in from a sharper film — every scene she's in wakes up a little. Bill Skarsgård's dialogue got lost on me more than once, though I suspect the cinema's sound system was the culprit. Entire sentences went missing.
There's a better film buried in here about how legends get tidied up once the bodies are cleared away. This isn't it. Worth a watch for the cast — bring patience, and maybe subtitles.