For those of us who bask in the warming glow of pop artistry, there will always be a place in our hearts for Michael Crichton. Whether it’s genetically-engineered dinosaurs, alien epidemics, swarms of carnivorous nano-particles or global warming we’ve all come to know, if not appreciate, his unabashedly colloquial style of story-telling. So when we turn our lenses on his early forays into ‘the Industry’, Westworld becomes a particularly interesting element of his career, it being one of the six films (probably the best one I might add) he ever made.
As with most of his stories, though not necessarily rich in character, a wealth of ideas propels the action. Opening with a short, expository infomercial and a hovering journey across some large unnamed desert, we are ushered into the futuristic tourist haven of Delos, a place where visitors can enact their fantasies in android-inhabited historical reenactments in rich (and sometimes bloody) detail.
But as is the problem with any story which bases its hook on the fascination with contemporary technology, time tends to treat it poorly. The rest of the movie is a prime example of this. There are moments that specifically dwell on the squeaky-clean sophistication of computers that look like they were pulled out of the Pentagon from the 1950s. At other times simple repetition gets to be a problem. We’re shown one bit of information again and again as if the powers that be were concerned we wouldn’t get it the first time and as a result the movie often sags a bit where it shouldn’t have. The slow pace only accentuates the thematic dabbling and all but hits us over the head with its cautionary polemics. But that’s not to say you won’t be entertained as hell.
Yul Brenner, reprising his spurs with the same glint he had in “The Magnificent Seven”, is probably the best part of it all. Although he has a sum total of about three or four lines, his purposeful and malevolent gait, not to mention his glassy eyes, which reflect little else aside from the panic-stricken gazes of tough-guy wannabe Peter (Richard Benjamin), is enough to salvage our interest during even the slowest portions.
The long sweeping takes, presumably meant to convey a fantasia of technological wonder, often overdone and overstressed, are forgivable in most senses; if not for Crichton’s awkwardness with the medium, then at least for his fluid and confident direction, which remains contemplative but conceptually dynamite throughout, as he never rushes a scene or fills up space with shallow adrenaline or pomp. Even when he should.
Best when: A.) Jurassic Park marked a turning point in your life. B.) You like robot sex. C.) You enjoy “what if” scenarios.
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