Today, Hugh Jackman steps into Sherwood Forest as an ageing Robin Hood in The Death of Robin Hood at a moment when the world is, once again, preoccupied with wealth and power. Robin Hood’s enduring appeal — he first appeared in 1226 CE — lies in a fundamental idea: laws derive legitimacy from justice, and when they cease to serve it, obedience can no longer be considered a virtue.
Should Robin Hood’s legacy then be read as a celebration of disobedience? The answer is no. His life and exploits are a meditation on accountability. Robin does not seek to abolish order; rather, he seeks to restore it. His rebellion is directed not at authority itself but at authority that has become untethered from the common good. The Sheriff of Nottingham represents an old political problem: institutions that preserve power while abandoning justice.
Robin’s answer to this is the creation of an alternative political order within Sherwood. Inside its bounds, wealth carries obligations, leadership is earned rather than inherited, and community functions through reciprocity instead of coercion. Sherwood offers tantalising glimpses of a society in which legitimacy emerged from mutual responsibility.
That idea has acquired fresh relevance. Across democracies, trust in institutions has declined. Citizens watch as wealth accumulates at unprecedented levels while social mobility stalls. Unelected billionaires — and the world’s first trillionaire — shape public discourse, markets and politics. At the same time, governments struggle to address climate change, inequality and technological disruption. The result is a widening gap between legal authority and moral authority.
Political philosophers have long recognised this tension. John Rawls argued that institutions command legitimacy only when citizens regard them as fair. Civil disobedience, in his perspective, is not an assault on democracy but a corrective mechanism when democratic institutions fail to uphold their own principles. Robin Hood is emblematic of this moral and philosophical position. His rebellion does not reject law altogether; in Sherwood forest, he seeks to restore the moral basis upon which law rests.
Sherwood forest’s economic moorings are equally striking. The political economist, Elinor Ostrom, spent decades studying how communities govern common resources without relying exclusively on either markets or central authorities. Her work demonstrated that groups can create durable systems of cooperation through shared rules, monitoring and mutual trust. Sherwood mirrors that insight. It imagines governance from below: neither State nor market, but a civic community capable of regulating itself.
This vision stands in contrast to contemporary political culture which is fascinated by exceptional individuals: strongmen, charismatic populists and self-styled disruptors. It would be easy, but a mistake, to think that Robin Hood fits this larger-than-life template. Sherwood forest and its inhabitants reject the premise that societies are saved by heroic men. Robin matters because he belongs to a collective. Remove Little John, Friar Tuck, Will Scarlet and the wider band of outlaws and there is no Sherwood. There is only a fugitive in the woods. Even Maid Marian, who in many retellings leads the outlaws and governs in Robin’s absence, reinforces the forest’s ethos of shared responsibility rather than concentrated authority.
The philosopher, Hannah Arendt, argued that political action emerges when people act together in public rather than merely obey or resist in isolation. Civil disobedience was fundamentally collective. Sherwood embodies that principle. It is not a refuge for individual grievance but a community organised around a shared understanding of justice. Sherwood is not a policy blueprint but a reminder that accountability emerges from communities that insist power answers to the common good.
