Over eons of mythmaking, the 13th century bandit Robin Hood has evolved from a scamp adored by King Henry VIII to a symbol of sticking it to the rich. He’s been called a thief, a benefactor, a commoner, a lord, a killer and a hero. During the Great Depression, Robin was a dashing champion of the people. At the height of the Red Scare, he was a Communist threat; then, in the ‘70s, a sexy cartoon fox. But never until Michael Sarnoski’s “The Death of Robin Hood,” which imagines the folk legend as a benumbed mass murderer, has this outlaw been duller than the rock piles he builds to bury his corpses. Hugh Jackman plays Robin Hood in his final days, a loose retelling of a 500-year-old ballad, and seems to have ancient dirt creased into his wrinkles. Injuries and exhaustion have him aching to retire. Yet the family members of his casualties won’t let him quit. Out of duty to their bloodlines, these vengeful mourners — even the grandchildren of his victims — continue …