Judging by this swashbuckler, the genre has died and been teleported to outer space. Robin's outlawry, escape, encounters with Little John and Friar Tuck are routine, and the love story is limp. Not much pledging troth and sighing like furnaces about this Robin and Marian; he's phoning it in, she's truculent and dislikeable, and what varlet would not see through her (big Uma Thurman) disguise as a boy? Fatally, Bergin's Robin Hood lacks the snap for action, scrambling where bounding is required, good-eggish rather than noble in resolve, and mistaking lounging for blithe insouciance in the courtship. The main interest lies in the trio of villains: a death's-head Folcanet with extraordinary Norman consonants (Prochnow), a perplexingly ambiguous Baron Daguerre (Krabbé), and a brief, effective guest spot for Prince John (Fox).