Robin and Marian (1976) – Review

There comes a point where every legend either calcifies into myth or gets dragged back down to earth and asked to show its wrinkles. Richard Lester’s Robin and Marian choose the latter with almost suspicious enthusiasm. Turns out happily-ever-after has a shelf life, and Sherwood Forest doesn’t come with a pension plan.

Twenty years after playing woodland socialist, Robin Hood (Sean Connery) is still knocking about in France, loyally serving King Richard (Richard Harris) during the tail end of the Crusades, because apparently no one told him the war was over in every way that matters. Richard, now less noble warrior and more unhinged tyrant running on fumes and ego, orders Robin and Little John (Nicol Williamson) to storm a castle for a rumoured gold statue. The catch is that it’s defended by a one-eyed old man protecting civilians and a statue that’s about as valuable as a garden ornament, which feels like the universe trying to make a point. Robin refuses, which is apparently treason now, and Richard responds like a medieval toddler by ordering a massacre and attempting to execute his most loyal man, proving that absolute power mostly just makes you embarrassing.

“This is another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”

Richard gets himself mortally wounded in the process, because karma occasionally shows up to work, even if it’s running a bit late. In a final burst of theatrical irony, he offers Robin the chance to beg for his life, which Robin declines because dignity apparently matters more than survival, or maybe he’s just tired of the whole arrangement. The king, too weak to follow through on his own threats, dies mid-drama, and in a rare moment of clarity, frees Robin and Little John as if that balances the scales. So off they go, back to England, because nothing says “good life choice” like returning to the scene of all your unresolved problems, armed with nostalgia and very little else.

“I wonder how the poor are getting on?”

Turns out, not very well. Back in Nottingham, Robin finds a place stubbornly committed to being exactly as bad as he left it, as if two decades of absence were more of a polite intermission than a turning point. Will Scarlett (Denholm Elliott) and Friar Tuck (Ronnie Barker) have pivoted into horse theft and light grifting, enthusiastically keeping the “legend” alive while quietly proving it pays better than honesty. The Sheriff of Nottingham (Robert Shaw) is still in charge, though the years have sanded him down into something far more interesting than a stock villain, a weary realist who seems to understand everyone’s motives a little too well. Maid Marian (Audrey Hepburn), meanwhile, has swapped romance for religion and now runs an abbey, which Robin processes with all the emotional maturity of a man clinging to a version of himself that no longer exists. When political pressure puts her in the Sheriff’s sights, Robin intervenes, and just like that, it’s back to the forest and the arrows, because nothing says growth like repeating the same mistakes with slightly worse knees.

“Marian, I’ll have nun of this surrender nonsense.”

Robin gathers what’s left of his merry men, plus a few optimistic newcomers who clearly didn’t read the brochure or notice the distinct lack of happy endings. A skirmish here, an ambush there, and before long Robin is doing what he always does best: escalating things while pretending it’s still the good old days. The Sheriff, knowing Robin better than Robin knows himself, lures him into a final confrontation that feels less like destiny and more like inevitability catching up. They fight, slowly, painfully, like two men who really should be sitting down with tea and discussing their regrets instead of swinging swords. Robin wins, but only just, and at a cost that makes the victory feel like a clerical error rather than a triumph.

“We’re too old for this shit.”

Mortally wounded, Robin is taken to Marian’s abbey, where she administers what might generously be called “medicine” and, less generously, “a very polite murder suicide.” She poisons them both, framing it as mercy, which is either deeply romantic or deeply alarming, depending on your tolerance for tragic love stories and questionable ethics. Robin, finally out of options and energy, accepts it with the kind of tired clarity that’s been avoiding him all film. He asks Little John to bury them where his final arrow lands, clinging to one last piece of myth-making, and the legend ends not with a triumphant fanfare, but with a quiet, exhausted shrug that feels almost honest.

This is not your typical heroic ending.

Stray Observations:

• Richard Harris once played King Arthur in Camelot, which means he has a habit of portraying leaders who probably shouldn’t be trusted with sharp objects or authority.
• Sean Connery later popped up as King Richard in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, because continuity is for cowards. Also, it’s funny if you think about it too long.
• The film was originally titled The Death of Robin Hood, which is refreshingly honest, but Columbia Pictures decided audiences might prefer to be gently lied to. In 2026, Hugh Jackman changed their minds.
• Robin returns after 20 years to find all his old enemies still alive and thriving, which is either tragic or a brutal commentary on how effective his earlier heroics actually were.
• The Sheriff clocks Robin as a man with a bit of a death wish, which is the kind of psychological insight you don’t expect from someone usually portrayed as a sneering villain.
• The final duel between Robin and the Sheriff looks less like swashbuckling and more like two men negotiating with their joints. It’s great.

Do either of these guys even have Medicaid? 

Director Richard Lester, fresh off the kinetic chaos of The Three Musketeers films, takes a sharp turn here into something quieter and far more reflective. He strips away the usual romantic gloss and replaces it with a world that feels lived-in, worn down, and faintly disappointed in itself. Lester isn’t interested in myth-making; he’s interested in what happens after the myth has overstayed its welcome. The result is a film that feels oddly modern in its cynicism, even as it’s draped in period detail.

It’s a hard day’s knight.

Visually, David Watkin gives the film a muted, almost autumnal quality, as if the entire story is taking place at the end of something. The forests aren’t magical; they’re damp and a bit miserable. The castles feel cold and functional rather than grand. And over it all, the score by John Barry drifts in with that unmistakable melancholy elegance, reminding you at every turn that this isn’t a story about glory; it’s about what’s left when glory fades.

It is a melancholic return to Sherwood Forest.

In terms of the Robin Hood canon, this film is the odd one out, the one that shows up to the party in black and starts talking about mortality. It draws from the old tale in A Gest of Robyn Hode, where Robin is betrayed and killed by a prioress, but flips it into something far more emotionally complicated. Here, Marian becomes the prioress, and the act isn’t betrayal but mercy, or at least the film’s version of it. It’s a bold reinterpretation that reframes the legend not as a tale of heroism, but as one of inevitability and the quiet tragedy of knowing when the story should end.

Marian’s “medicine” would not pass modern regulatory approval.

The cast is almost unfairly stacked. Sean Connery brings a weary physicality to Robin, a man who can still fight but probably shouldn’t. Audrey Hepburn, coming out of semi-retirement, gives Marian a calm, grounded presence that balances Connery’s stubbornness beautifully. Robert Shaw’s Sheriff is the real surprise, though, turning what’s usually a stock villain into a thoughtful, even sympathetic figure. Watching him and Connery face off again after From Russia with Love adds a strange layer of meta-enjoyment. And then you have Richard Harris, Ian Holm, Denholm Elliott, and Nicol Williamson filling out the world like it’s some kind of overqualified medieval ensemble.

Robert Shaw is my favourite Sheriff of Nottingham.

In conclusion, Robin and Marian is what happens when a legend stops trying to impress you and starts telling the truth instead. It’s slower, sadder, and far more interested in endings than beginnings, which makes it stand out in a sea of adaptations that keep rebooting the same origin story like it’s a software update no one asked for. There’s a quiet confidence in how it handles its themes, trusting the audience to sit with discomfort rather than chasing easy heroics. Not everything works, and its pacing can test your patience if you’re expecting traditional swashbuckling, but what it offers instead is something rarer: a thoughtful, grown-up take on a myth that usually refuses to grow up.