It's an old story: Bruckheimer dictates to director. Why else would Jerry be such a brand, the producer-as-auteur for whom slo-mo emotional gurning and balls-for-brains ballistics are delicate signature motifs?
So, released simultaneously with the bloody bland theatrical cut comes the bland, bloody director's cut. Sixteen minutes longer, it ups the decapitation count, which saw the rating certificate jump from 12 to 15, but remains a glumly "gritty" take on the fabled folk hero. Britain's mythological majesty is turned into a sour-faced, half-Roman proto-egalitarian given to frowning about freedom more than Tony Blair. Except Blair is a better actor than Clive Owen - - at least here, where the battle of the maybe-Bonds is easily won by Ioan Gruffudd's dashing Lancelot.