Written and directed by Michael Crichton, Westworld revolves around the concept of a distant-future amusement resort. Spending their time in one of three fully-functional, authentic sets, guests are free to live out their life-long fantasies as a wild west cowboy, medieval knight or indulgent Roman elite while a convincing, lifelike cyborg supporting cast absorbs punishment and boosts egos. The big selling points are that anything goes and nobody gets hurt, but when a park-wide malfunction grants free will to the robots, those guarantees are immediately called into question.

It's a fun premise, on par with some of the era's better sci-fi concepts, but spends too much time dilly-dallying and vainly soaking up the atmosphere when it should be advancing the plot. That gives the impression that, like so many Philip Dick properties, it doesn't really know what to do with itself after the ground rules are established. Crichton's work in the director's chair leaves a lot to be desired, but he doesn't get much help from the film's hammy, made-for-TV special effects. Most of that can be attributed to the age of the picture, but it's tough to take the drama seriously when folks bleed neon red. Yul Brynner turns in some quality work as the ruthless, stone-faced lead cyborg, but the rest of the cast is droll, vanilla and forgettable. Too much frosting, not enough cake.