In these unbelievably dark days, when half of America is steeped in all consuming doom and gloom, the half of America to which I disappointingly, zealously belong, you would hope for a few places to go where rays of sunlight might still peak through the trees. A place, like, say, Sherwood Forest, and its foremost hero, one Robin Hood, the fencing, guffawing bloke who took from the rich to give to the poor, and who always gets to stab the Sheriff of Nottingham in the heart because it, see, is a fairytale and he, see, is entirely mythical.
Alas. This is now, and now we are not allowed fairytales in fiction, because now fiction is all about being authentic, and being authentic means being real, and being real means being gritty. And nothing now says gritty more than origin story, because when you have an origin story you can get back to basics, and getting back to the basics means an aesthetic light on Technicolor and heavy on murk. And that is why, just when we need it the absolute least, we are about to get a gritty origin story of Robin Hood. Because – OH FOR GOD’S SAKE WHY DO WE HAVE TO KEEP AUTHENTICATING A GODDAM MYTH?
Stay merry, man, stay merry forever.