Was it when Robin Hood shot an arrow through a boy’s eye socket or when Little John ripped off another man’s jaw?

Maybe it was the part when Robin slit a young woman’s throat and held her to the ground as she bled out.   

But very quickly during the nauseatingly violent first couple scenes of the interminable “The Death of Robin Hood” did my mind and stomach completely reject all of director Michael Sarnoski’s high-on-its-own-supply film, even with more than 90 mostly insufferable minutes left to go.

The savagery recedes, sure, however the movie only goes from sick to sooty. 

Boy, does this tiresome medieval drudgery think it’s clever.

You see, Sarnoski, who also wrote the screenplay, has flipped the folkloric character, played by Hugh Jackman, on his feathered cap by turning him from a benevolent outlaw into a cold-blooded killer. From swashbuckling Errol Flynn to “The Sherwood Forest Chainsaw Massacre.”

We learn in a “Romeo and Juliet”-ish narration provided by Jodie Comer’s icy Sister Brigid that there was, in fact, no one “more wanton and wicked than the murderous bandit Robin Hood and his Little John.” 

In short: “Steal from the rich and give to the poor” becomes “Kill anybody with a pulse.”

There are plenty of excellent movies about horrible men and homicidal maniacs, and they hold our attention in a variety of ways. Psychological complexity that gives us insight into why they do what they do is a big one, and so is a captivating plot. Sometimes the evildoers win us over with humor and charisma.  

You won’t find even a morsel of any of that at “Death of Robin Hood.” Sarnoski tries to get by on cinematography and brooding. That’s it. But stunning, misty Northern Ireland scenery and an offputtingly dour leading man are not enough to lift this trudge out of its murky pit of depression and lethargy.

Of course, because of the prestige that automatically accompanies an A24 release and the acclaim Sarnoski received for 2021’s “Pig,” cinephiles will dig like truffle hogs for buried profundity here. Don’t bother. This is little more than “Winnie the Pooh: Blood and Honey” with stars, a bigger budget and delusions of deeper meaning.

The thin explanation for the switcheroo on Robin is that 13th Century Englanders only believe the man’s a hero because he invented his own glorified mythology to help him to better stab, gouge and behead.

That he’s proudly offed hundreds, maybe thousands of people has somehow not entered the village rumor mill. 

Oddly pretentious, this is one of those annoying films that drones on about the weight and importance of storytelling rather than telling a weighty or important story.  

Jackman, looking like he’s about to herd two of every animal onto an ark, plays Rob, whose favorite hobby is brutality alongside his best mate. For instance, at one point we watch Little John (Bill Skarsgård) bash some poor guy’s brains out for a handful of bread. Hood’s not repentant or remorseful these days, he says, so much as “exhausted.”

During a fight when a father arrives to avenge the death of his sons, Robin hopes to finally give it a rest and die but is only gravely injured. Too bad! The movie could’ve ended early.

Instead he wakes up at a serene island sanctuary overseen by the calm and introspective Sister Brigid, where men are healed and children live at a safe remove from danger.

While he’s recovering, Little John’s young daughter Margaret arrives.

Protecting the helpless girl makes Robin see, sort of, that there are greater things in life than executing passersby. Ya think? So now we’ve reached the clichéd and obvious portion of the evening.

The latter third of the movie is, at least, an improvement because the viewer doesn’t want to vomit during it, and Comer brings her enticing secrecy to an underwritten character.

Jackman, however, confuses intensity for feeling. The guy’s so tense he practically shakes as he works his muscles so hard to remain invested. He’s a collection of adjectives rather than a fully realized person. 

And the ickiness doesn’t fully go away either. There are several blood-letting sequences as Brigid drains the red stuff from Rob into a bowl. Ewwww-de-lally.

Call me old fashioned, but I’d prefer some green tights and merry men to this sour crud.