Film Review: Westworld (1973)

Although it is rather unrewarding to label any period a 'golden age', given the notorious tendency to view the past through rose-tinted glasses, in the case of cinema this could reasonably be said for the 1970s. Science fiction enthusiasts might assert this even more emphatically, as this ill-fated era—at least where Hollywood was concerned—delivered them a string of achievements that would enjoy the reputation of undisputed classics for decades. The reason for this likely lies in a fortunate confluence of circumstances: the old Hollywood empire had collapsed, yet the new regime had not yet sufficiently entrenched itself, leaving auteurs—such as the more notorious figures of New Hollywood—less constrained by commercial, censorship, and other limitations. This allowed them to craft new worlds far more convincing than the exploitative schlock that had preceded them, and far less infantile than the family-friendly blockbusters of Lucas and Spielberg.

One such classic is Westworld, the directorial debut of esteemed novelist Michael Crichton. Though buried by 'mainstream' criticism upon its release and overshadowed among geek audiences by the slightly later popularity of Star Wars, the film now enjoys the status of an undisputed genre classic. Nothing demonstrates this more clearly than its television remake—the eponymous HBO series—which was arguably one of the most hyped television events of 2010s.

The plot of the original film is set in an indeterminate but relatively near future where technology has advanced sufficiently to produce robots, or androids, nearly identical to humans in appearance and basic detail. The Delos Corporation capitalised on this, constructing an amusement park whose main attraction is androids offering guests—willing to fork out (a then-legendary sum of) $1,000 daily for the privilege—the full spectrum of services, from violence to sex. The park comprises three distinct themed zones, one of which, dedicated to the Wild West, hosts the nominal protagonists: Paul Martin (James Brolin) and his friend John Blane (Richard Benjamin). While the stiff Paul—a first-time visitor—struggles to adapt to a world where he can act with impunity, the far more seasoned and relaxed John indulges without inhibition in escapades straddling both sides of the law. Meanwhile, behind the scenes, real drama unfolds as the park’s maintenance team begins recording a series of disturbing incidents: the androids inexplicably cease following commands and programmed routines, instead displaying hostility toward guests.

Today, the original Westworld is often viewed less as a standalone film and more as a source—a kind of matrix—from which subsequent, far more famous works have drawn. This includes Cameron’s Terminator, which utilised the motif of the humanoid robot as an unstoppable killing machine, and Jurassic Park, interpretable as Crichton’s own variation on the theme of a futuristic amusement park gone catastrophically awry. Viewed through today’s lens—and inevitable comparisons with HBO’s prestige megaproject—the original Westworld appears like a tiny egg from which, only after decades, the T-Rex that would leave audiences agape finally hatched. By modern standards, its special effects technology was exceptionally primitive, compounded by MGM—the titan of Hollywood’s classical era—undergoing its major relocation to Las Vegas at the time, with executives unwilling to invest even a modest sum by contemporary benchmarks.

Crichton, disinclined to reinvent the wheel or indulge in experimentation, directed the film in a 'dry' technocratic style, trimming events down to a lean hour and a half without major issues. His inexperience is most evident in the overextended early sections, where the protagonists’ adventures resemble a cheap Western all too closely. This is exacerbated by the irritating use of slow motion in scenes of fairly explicit violence, which feels clichéd, and the puritanical handling of the sex scene between Paul and the robot prostitute—rendering Westworld even cheaper in tone, closer to the heavily censored television productions of the era.

The film becomes far more compelling in scenes depicting the park’s backstage operations: the nightly collection of android 'corpses' for repair, or technicians—led by the excellent Alan Oppenheimer—debating then-novel concepts like 'infection' in complex computer systems. Things truly ignite when the androids launch their bloody rebellion. This includes Yul Brynner’s striking transformation from the heroic gunslinger of The Magnificent Seven into the sinister, relentless killing machine of the Gunslinger—a role that became one of the genre’s most iconic figures. Even more refreshing is the subversion of cliché: it is the harmless 'beta' Paul, not the 'macho' John, who survives the Gunslinger encounter, entrusted with the task later reserved for Final Girls in horror cinema. Paul’s reliance on intellect and ingenuity over brute force lends Westworld the depth that cements its classic status—perhaps even more so than its pioneering use of computer pixelisation for the Gunslinger’s POV shots (reminiscent of Predator).

The unconventional ending—where the hero, instead of escaping the park and ending the nightmare, simply stops, exhausted, to ponder what has happened—further elevates the film. It underscores Crichton’s refusal to shy away from posing profound questions, answers to which countless filmmakers would pursue over the following decades, sometimes with remarkable success.

RATING: 7/10 (+++)

(Note: The text in the original Croatian version is available here

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