Network’s limited edition Michael Praed Blu-ray box set is a pleasantly lush and splendorous thing, housing all thirteen almost hour-long episodes featuring Praed as the eponymous wolfshead, now rendered in 1080p from the original film elements (TNG-style!), as well as all of the special features that were originally released on the first two series’ DVD releases in 2002 and a remastered 1983 documentary to boot. Amongst them are the series’ notorious blooper reels; the enlightening two-part Nothing’s Forgotten documentary; and a series of HD shorts featuring second-season director Robert Young discussing the most noteworthy episodes that he shot. The set is beautifully presented, with the blue-tipped slipcase sliding off to reveal a verdantly-clad amaray case. Inside you’ll find a hefty and insightful companion booklet duly entitled Legend, together with full synopses and airdates for each episode on the underside of the cover along with details of their accompanying special features. My only minor niggle is that, even with the discs taken out, this information is still difficult to read; otherwise, the presentation is perfect. With disc-based media becoming more outmoded by the day, this set serves as a pleasant reminder of its appeal, as well as a shining example to other media distributors who’ve long-since abandoned collectors’ booklets and the like in their physical releases.
“You were sleeping; you slept too long. We all have.
It’s time we woke. Time we stopped running.”
Some might lament the order of the episodes’ presentation across the discs, which is not how they were transmitted, but in continuity order. To me, it makes perfect sense that “The Swords of Wayland” should precede “The Prophecy”, for instance, as Marion still believes her father to be dead in the former; however, some are still sticklers for broadcast presentation. What does annoy me though is that each season’s feature-length offering has been cleaved in two, again differing from transmission, but this time for the worse.
With the possible exception of Robert Addie’s still-brilliant Gisburne, whom Richard Armitage would give a run for his money in the BBC’s 2006 version, the classic Robin Hood characters have never been bettered in any version of the myth. Michael Praed has incredible gravitas as Robin - his rugged good looks and quicksilver voice define the role, but he tempers the part with a calm and often surprisingly gentle edge that both Judi Trott’s Marion and Peter Llewellyn Williams’ Much bring to the fore.
What I like most about the Praed portrayal though is it’s pragmatism. I realise that this sounds absurd when I’m taking about an incarnation of the outlaw who’s hand-picked by a shaman to be his spiritual son and cloaked in as much mysticism as he is woodland greenery, but it’s true nonetheless. Does he wear a shitty little hat with a feather in it? Of course not. He wears a hood that obscures his outlaw features and earns him the makes-total-sense nommes de guerre, “Robin in the Hood” and “The Hooded Man”. Does he balk at killing Norman soldiers? Nope. He’s a terrorist who shoots them down from a distance or slices them up by sword at close quarters. Do his magical powers see him win every week, and without cost? No. Two of his men die in the first story alone, and more would follow. And, in the end, he loses – look at a history book, he has to. But Robin of Sherwood, and indeed the larger Robin Hood myth, isn’t about toppling a regime; it’s about the nobility in resistance, the necessity of a social conscience - precious things indeed in a Britain under Maggie Thatcher. As Robin himself says, the war between good and evil, or “the powers of light and darkness”, if you will, never ends.
What I like most about the Praed portrayal though is it’s pragmatism. I realise that this sounds absurd when I’m taking about an incarnation of the outlaw who’s hand-picked by a shaman to be his spiritual son and cloaked in as much mysticism as he is woodland greenery, but it’s true nonetheless. Does he wear a shitty little hat with a feather in it? Of course not. He wears a hood that obscures his outlaw features and earns him the makes-total-sense nommes de guerre, “Robin in the Hood” and “The Hooded Man”. Does he balk at killing Norman soldiers? Nope. He’s a terrorist who shoots them down from a distance or slices them up by sword at close quarters. Do his magical powers see him win every week, and without cost? No. Two of his men die in the first story alone, and more would follow. And, in the end, he loses – look at a history book, he has to. But Robin of Sherwood, and indeed the larger Robin Hood myth, isn’t about toppling a regime; it’s about the nobility in resistance, the necessity of a social conscience - precious things indeed in a Britain under Maggie Thatcher. As Robin himself says, the war between good and evil, or “the powers of light and darkness”, if you will, never ends.
The standouts amongst his Not-So-Merry Men are easily Clive Mantle’s John of Hathersage and Ray Winstone’s “psychopathic football hooligan”, Will Scathlock (later Scarlet, for really quite bloody reasons). The former is fairly faithful to the traditional gentle-giant paradigm, but his youth exacerbates his vulnerability to the extent that he blubbers almost as often as he cracks Norman heads. This makes him all the more real, and all the more endearing.
“I killed three of the bastards. I’m gonna swing.”
The latter goes the other way - Winstone’s character is a bitter, vengeful hardman who went on a Norman killing spree following the rape and murder of his wife at the hands of mercenaries. He’s just about as far from the “gay” (in the old-fashioned sense of the word), red-clad ponce of other interpretations as you could possibly get. When Robin springs him from jail, he joins his band of rebels, but throughout the series there’s a nagging doubt that his motivation isn’t quite as unselfish as his peers’. The look on his face as he kills is as frightening as anything you’ll see on the other side of the divide, and it’s exactly this sort of credible greyscale that makes this series so damned compelling.
“Ah but which devil? There are so many, aren’t there?
And only one God. Hardly seems fair.”
And on the other side of the fence, the quality is every bit as high. Lord High Sheriff of Nottingham Robert de Rainault is as wicked and immoral as ever a sheriff were, yet Nickolas Grace imbues him with a dry sense of humour that almost makes him likeable. Every episode he graces is teeming with witty asides and one-liners - many at Gisburne’s expense (“The halfwit, my lord! The halfwit!” / “Which one?”), many not (“Why are you men of God so damned acquisitive?”) - together with vitriolic tantrums that are almost pitiable. Nobody’s ever pitched the part better and I doubt that anyone ever will.
“By Christ, Robert, I will not lose my fish pond!”
“By Christ, Robert, I will not lose my fish pond!”
And to Carpenter’s credit, he gives de Rainault more than one foil. The Abbot Hugo de Rainault (played by Philip Jackson of Poirot fame), brother to the sheriff, often lends the proceedings a little much-needed levity, but more importantly, he embodies the corrupt establishment that Robin and his band are rebelling against. This is never demonstrated more beautifully than in the first series’ opener, “Robin Hood and the Sorcerer”, in which he plots to make a nun of his young ward, the Lady Marion of Leaford, just so that he can usurp her late father’s lands.
“He’s coming. The Hooded Man is coming...”“Robin Hood and the Sorcerer” is in fact the set’s unequivocal highlight. Its storybook title is the only thing about it that I could criticise; everything else about it is ingeniously conceived and mercurially executed. The pre-title sequence is one of the best that I’ve seen in any show, and is particularly effective as it sets the stall for what’s to come in its even-handed juxtaposition of mysticism and slaughter. The sight of those Norman soldiers silently drifting across the waters towards Loxley, their menace growing ever louder through Clannad’s tentative rumblings, is more haunting in many ways than the immolation that they unleash upon young Robin’s native village.
The ensuing tale does a sterling job of weaving aspects of the myth with Carpenter’s mystical elements. The disguised Robin still famously splits an arrow to win the sheriff’s archery tournament, for instance, but here he does so only to reclaim his inheritance: the Silver Arrow, a pagan symbol vested with great power and belonging to Herne the Hunter, the shamanic lord of the trees who serves as Robin’s mentor. The recently-outlawed Robin still fights John when they first meet, and indeed gives him his “Little” soubriquet, but here they fight because John is possessed by the Baron de Belleme, who, to the surprise of many, is this first story’s principal antagonist rather than the sheriff. Belleme (played by the awesome Anthony Valentine) has his sights set on Abbot Hugo’s young ward, and with his “Hooded Man” prophecies being borne out, much to the sheriff’s dismay, he now has the necessary leverage to get her. At heart, for all its enthralling setups and set pieces, “Robin Hood and the Sorcerer” is the classic tale of Robin setting out to rescue his lover from the clutches of an evil-doer. What sets it apart are its demons, which exist literally in the case of the baron, and metaphorically for just about everyone else.
“They are all waiting: the blinded, the maimed,
the men locked in the stinking dark.
They all wait for you...”
the men locked in the stinking dark.
They all wait for you...”
Even the cave-dwelling Herne the Hunter, the personification of the powers of light in the series, is shrouded in literal darkness. I remember having nightmares as a child about his half-lit, horned silhouette and John Abineri’s gravelly proclamations: “When the Horned One possesses me, I am Herne the Hunter.” Yet there’s a naturalistic innocence about the character; a straightforwardness that still confounds me to this day. Robin calls him a man, and Herne doesn’t deny it – rather, he removes his costume and greets him as a man. Yet he’s clearly imbued with the spirit of the lord of the trees; demonstrably vested with the sort of knowledge and foresight that one would normally only associate with somebody in league with a devil.
“Robin Hood and the Sorcerer” is also notable for its introduction of Mark Ryan’s Nasir, the baron’s hand-picked archer and ambidextrous swordsman. As he possessed such a commanding presence on screen, rather than kill him off in the story’s dénouement as planned, the producers restructured the story’s climactic fight scene to hint at a budding respect between the wolfshead and the Saracen, with Nasir then showing up in Sherwood right at the death with a wry smile on his face. His joining the band is never discussed or even acknowledged; he’s simply there from that point forward, mysterious and brooding, silent but deadly, quietly and effortlessly embodying the tone of the series. It’s a testament to both the character and Ryan’s performance that many subsequent interpretations have included a Saracen within the ensemble. Centuries on, the legend evolves.
“The Witch of Elsdon” is the first episode to see the outlaws start to earn their philanthropic reputation, robbing the rich to help the people of Nottingham. It also explores what it’s like for a young woman living in a forest with a group of young men - an issue deftly swerved by most interpretations. Marion’s strength is matched only by her gentility, which doesn’t sit well with a group of young men sleeping rough and living between ambushes.
The next episode, “Seven Poor Knights from Acre”, is a real belter, and probably the first season’s best stand-alone episode as it pits the outlaws against a more competent foe in the shape of the Knights Templar. Besides its awesome action sequences, the episode boasts some tremendously entertaining scenes between de Rainault and Gisburne, who can’t believe their luck when the knights decide to hunt down the outlaws who they believe stole their sacred emblem. “Alan a Dale”, by contrast, is a comedy wearing a swashbuckling cloak. Almost every scene is either satirical or slapstick, and Grace is at the height of his powers as his misogynistic sheriff reluctantly prepares to wed the titular forlorn minstrel’s young lover in order to get her lands.
The season finale, “The King’s Fool”, is a clever and quite touching piece that cements the outlaws’ brotherhood. I particularly like John Rhys-Davies’ (The Lord of the Rings) portrayal of Lionheart, who’s depicted as a reckless, impulsive tyrant no better than his historically-reviled little brother. All that sets them apart are King Richard’s weight and charm, which in this story bewitch Robin far more effectively than any enchantment, hence the title.
The season finale, “The King’s Fool”, is a clever and quite touching piece that cements the outlaws’ brotherhood. I particularly like John Rhys-Davies’ (The Lord of the Rings) portrayal of Lionheart, who’s depicted as a reckless, impulsive tyrant no better than his historically-reviled little brother. All that sets them apart are King Richard’s weight and charm, which in this story bewitch Robin far more effectively than any enchantment, hence the title.
Evil One must first take Albion from you.”
Up next in the set is the two-part “Swords of Wayland”, a devilish and genuinely chilling tale based upon a myth that Carpenter gleefully admits having invented. The story takes the outlaws far from Sherwood - all the way to Robin Hood’s Bay, in fact (“Ahh...”) - where Robin’s mystical sword, Albion, becomes a pawn in a plot to raise Satan. The directorial debut of Robert Young, who would take over from Ian Sharp at the helm, it’s the most beautifully shot story in the series by far, abounding with haunting, blood-red skies and sprawling, coastal vistas - and probably its scariest too. Rula Lenska’s Morgwyn of Ravenscar is every bit as terrifying as the fallen angel that she wants to raise.
Fortunately, Grace’s sheriff returns with all due megalomania in “The Children of Israel”, in which he finds himself pitted against not just the outlaws, but the powerful nation of Jewish money-lenders that props up England’s economy too. It’s a delight to see de Rainault spar with an intelligent, articulate and passive foe for a change, and Gisburne’s attempted dalliance with the money-lender’s daughter is every bit as entertaining - albeit for very different reasons. The episode also allows the long-running tension between Robin and Will to boil over, resulting in Will turning his back on his friends - for a while, at least. It’s subplots like these that make the show such an engrossing and believable drama. It beggars belief that two such strong, opposing personalities could get along - so they don’t.
The box set’s penultimate offering, “The Enchantment”, finds Robin in the thrall of a seductive sorceress – one with a connection to a very old and very powerful enemy. For all its big gimmicks and surprises though, it’s a bit of an empty affair, carried almost entirely by the sheriff and Gisburne, whose greed here somehow manages to eclipse that of the preceding episode.
My favourite second-season episode, though, has to be the peerless finale, “The Greatest Enemy”, which some say is the series’ finest hour. On the face of it, there’s not all that much to it: faced with being ousted from office if he fails to put down Robin once and for all, the sheriff finally puts the full might of his forces into flushing out and killing the wolfshead. The beauty of the piece is that he succeeds with relative ease, only to realise too late that you can kill a man, but there’s no killing a legend.
Robin’s demise is handled flawlessly. Throughout the episode Carpenter’s script forces him into an ever-tighter corner, until he finally realises that there’s no way out. Then, the script slows, the circle tightens, and Praed and Trott give the performances of their lives as his Robin must prepare not just to die in a hail of crossbow fire, but also convince his soon-to-be widow to face the much more daunting task of living on without him. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a more heartrending scene anywhere; it’s Robin’s almost unnatural calmness, his resignation, that really sells it. For a “nervous young wolf” he’s remarkably Zen.
My favourite second-season episode, though, has to be the peerless finale, “The Greatest Enemy”, which some say is the series’ finest hour. On the face of it, there’s not all that much to it: faced with being ousted from office if he fails to put down Robin once and for all, the sheriff finally puts the full might of his forces into flushing out and killing the wolfshead. The beauty of the piece is that he succeeds with relative ease, only to realise too late that you can kill a man, but there’s no killing a legend.
“Tell the sheriff of Nottingham that Robin Hood
holds Sherwood. Tell him that Herne’s son
has claimed his kingdom.”
holds Sherwood. Tell him that Herne’s son
has claimed his kingdom.”
But as one outlaw is facing his end, Herne is already blowing another “leaf on the wind” into position to take on his mantle. Taking full advantage of the legend’s ambiguity, Carpenter would go on to explore the Pyle-sanitised version of the nation’s most famous tale though a new, gentrified lead in the third season: Robert of Huntingdon, son of an earl, portrayed by a very blonde and clean-cut young man by the name of Jason Connery (Doctor Who: “Vengeance on Varos”), whose lineage is as impressive as his character’s.
“You ungrateful bastard!”
The Robin of Sherwood: Michael Praed Limited Edition Box Set is currently cheapest at Amazon, where you can pick it up for £33.92 with free delivery.
