80 new york | march 16–29, 2020
PHOTOGRAPH: HBOcirculate. After a robot uprising that domi-
nated season two, killing over a hundred
humans at the parks, showrunners Lisa Joy
and Jonathan Nolan have now refocused
their at tention on the world beyond, dou-
bling down on classic late-night dorm-
room prompts like “What makes us
human?” and “Do artificial beings have
innate rights?” and “Are we obligated to
behave morally if God isn’t watching?”
Bernard Lowe (Jeffrey Wright), a repli-
cant version of Westworld’s late co-founder
Arnold Weber (also Wright), is living under
an assumed identity and working at a syn-
thetic-meat farm, while Dolores Abernathy
(Evan Rachel Wood), the onetime damsel in
distress who remade herself as an android
John Brown, is stalking the one-percenters.
Maeve (Thandie Newton), rendered inoper-
able last season following a desperate quest
to reclaim her kidnapped daughter, makes
her way back into the show as well, though
it would be unsporting to say exactly how;
ditto the Man in Black (Ed Harris), a.k.a.
William, a Westworld addict and control-
ling investor whose wife, Juliet (Sela Ward),
killed herself after learning of his depraved
behavior during his regular visits to the
park, and who killed his own daughter,
Emily (Katja Herbers), because her ques-
tions about her mother’s death made him
wrongly assume that she was an android
with an agenda.
At first it’s unclear from season three if
realer-than-real androids are common in
the outside world—a place that was fre-
quently mentioned but rarely glimpsed in
prior seasons—but the answer appears to
be no. Bernard fools nearly everyone into
thinking he’s a beleaguered working stiff
living in a metal igloo in a verdant field, and
Dolores easily passes for Homo sapiens,
thanks in part to her immaculate Holly-
wood-arm-candy look: ironed hair, stilettoheels, designer cocktail dresses. The tech-
nology depicted onscreen is a few steps up
from what we’ve got now, from snarky yes/
no push notifications alerting Caleb to
criminal opportunities (the reply options
are “No, I Like Being Basic” and “Fuck
Yeah”), to SUV-size drones that apparently
have replaced helicopters as the preferred
mode of transit for the rich, to references to
algorithms taking command of every col-
lective action (war included).
Not content to be a 21st-century rehash of
Crichton’s best-selling Frankenstein riffs—
the novelist-filmmaker also created Jurassic
Park, another tale set at an amusement park
where artificial beings turned against their
creators—the show folds a hundred years’
worth of stories about synthetic people,
from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and Isaac
Asimov’s I, Robot to the Blade Runner and
Alien franchises, into a self-aware and often
self-regarding mega narrative. Like other
ferociously aestheticized TV dramas, includ-
ing The Leftovers, Hannibal, and
Mr. Robot, Westworld seems to
have made a list of everything that
detractors didn’t like about it—
including fussily shifting timelines,
Russian-nesting-doll perception
games, and a presumption that it
was ahead of audiences that were often
ahead of Westworld—and handed it off to
the writing staff as a to-do list.
But there’s something to be said for
fanatically believing in one’s artistic vision,
even if it includes a propensity for turning
thoughtfully conceived subtext into bold-
faced and underlined text. (Lines like Wil-
liam’s “What is a person but a collection of
choices? Where do those choices come
from?” and Dolores’s “I’ve evolved into
something new, and I have one last role to
play: myself ” might make you wonder if it’s
possible to reset a show’s priorities byunplugging it and then plugging it back in.)
And there’s no denying that many of the
concerns that dogged the first half of season
one (such as the show’s seeming reluctance
to engage with the white supremacy, brutal
patriarchy, and Orientalism embedded in
the conception of the parks) were later
answered and expounded on (particularly
in a brilliant season-two stand-alone that
followed Zahn McClarnon’s Lakota warrior,
Akecheta, as he acquired self- awareness
and plotted to reunite with the wife he
adored in a canceled story line and figure
out how to escape).
The nagging fear that humankind is on
the brink of ceding its dominion thrums
under every scene. It’s the power source that
keeps the dramatic electricity running
whether the show is delivering on its con-
siderable promise, shambling into a narra-
tive or rhetorical cul-de-sac, or certifying its
HBO-ness by piling on gruesome murders,
tortures, and eviscerations that feel like nar-
ratively unimportant time-wasters. It’s the
most frustratingly not-quite-there show on
TV: structurally bold, visually arresting,
often brilliantly acted, show-off-ily erudite
(to the point of having three rich folks argue
the accuracy of a Plutarch quote during a
society gala), and woefully predisposed to
turn subtext into text. But its sense of dread
is so effective that it draws even skeptical
viewers into its narrative mazes, and the
self-regarding metafictional overlays invite
viewers to compare the series to video
games, Choose Your Own Adventure books,
myths, fables, philosophical and ethical sys-
tems, the assembly-line production of series
like Westworld, and the larger corporate
forces that affect TV storytelling.
In the first two seasons, reps from West-
world’s ownership, the Delos Corporation,
pressured the park’s co- creator Robert Ford
(Anthony Hopkins) to move away from
stories, characterizations, and
thought prompts and let guests
cut right to the sex, violence, and
acting out; that debate teased the
difference between erotica and
pornography and implied that,
among other things, Westworld
was also a critique of HBO’s moral-
relativity-based storytelling model, a for-
mula so successful that it seems to have
survived despite a takeover by AT&T, this
world’s version of the Delos Corporation.
The most basic questions are variants of
ones that drive so much science fiction:
After this, what comes next? Will we recog-
nize ourselves afterward? Or will we be
transformed? Or destroyed? If we’re trans-
formed, what will be the cost to our species
and all the rest? If we’re destroyed, will our
replacements say we deserved it, if they
remember us at all? ■Aaron PaulWESTWORLD
HBO.
SUNDAYS, 9 P.M.ADVANCED FORMTRANSMITTED
________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EIC0620CR_Critics_lay [Print]_36887654.indd 80 3/12/20 5:51 PM80 newyork| march16–29, 2020PHOTOGRAPH: HBOcirculate.Aftera robotuprisingthatdomi-
natedseasontwo,killingovera hundred
humansat theparks,showrunnersLisaJoy
andJonathanNolanhavenowrefocused
theirat tentionontheworldbeyond,dou-
blingdownonclassiclate-nightdorm-
room prompts like “What makes us
human?”and“Doartificialbeingshave
innaterights?”and“Areweobligatedto
behavemorallyif Godisn’t watching?”
BernardLowe(JeffreyWright),a repli-
cantversionofWestworld’slateco-founder
ArnoldWeber(alsoWright),is livingunder
an assumed identity and working at a syn-
thetic-meat farm, while Dolores Abernathy
(Evan Rachel Wood), the onetime damsel in
distress who remade herself as an android
John Brown, is stalking the one-percenters.
Maeve (Thandie Newton), rendered inoper-
able last season following a desperate quest
to reclaim her kidnapped daughter, makes
her way back into the show as well, though
it would be unsporting to say exactly how;
ditto the Man in Black (Ed Harris), a.k.a.
William, a Westworld addict and control-
ling investor whose wife, Juliet (Sela Ward),
killed herself after learning of his depraved
behavior during his regular visits to the
park, and who killed his own daughter,
Emily (Katja Herbers), because her ques-
tions about her mother’s death made him
wrongly assume that she was an android
with an agenda.
At first it’s unclear from season three if
realer-than-real androids are common in
the outside world—a place that was fre-
quently mentioned but rarely glimpsed in
prior seasons—but the answer appears to
be no. Bernard fools nearly everyone into
thinking he’s a beleaguered working stiff
living in a metal igloo in a verdant field, and
Dolores easily passes for Homo sapiens,
thanks in part to her immaculate Holly-
wood-arm-candy look: ironed hair, stilettoheels,designercocktaildresses. The tech-
nologydepictedonscreenis a few steps up
fromwhatwe’vegotnow, from snarky yes/
nopushnotificationsalerting Caleb to
criminalopportunities(thereply options
are“No,I Like BeingBasic” and “Fuck
Yeah”),toSUV-sizedronesthat apparently
havereplacedhelicoptersasthe preferred
modeoftransitfortherich,toreferences to
algorithmstakingcommandof every col-
lectiveaction(warincluded).
Not contentto bea 21st-century rehash of
Crichton’sbest-sellingFrankenstein riffs—
the novelist-filmmaker also created Jurassic
Park, another tale set at an amusement park
where artificial beings turned against their
creators—the show folds a hundred years’
worth of stories about synthetic people,
from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and Isaac
Asimov’s I, Robot to the Blade Runner and
Alien franchises, into a self-aware and often
self-regarding mega narrative. Like other
ferociously aestheticized TV dramas, includ-
ing The Leftovers, Hannibal, and
Mr. Robot, Westworld seems to
have made a list of everythingthat
detractors didn’t like aboutit—
including fussily shifting timelines,
Russian-nesting-doll perception
games, and a presumptionthatit
was ahead of audiencesthatwereoften
ahead of Westworld—andhandedit off to
the writing staff as a to-dolist.
But there’s somethingtobesaidfor
fanatically believing in one’sartisticvision,
even if it includes a propensity forturning
thoughtfully conceived subtextintobold-
faced and underlined text.(Lineslike Wil-
liam’s “What is a person buta collectionof
choices? Where do thosechoicescome
from?” and Dolores’s “I’veevolvedinto
something new, and I haveonelast roleto
play: myself ” might makeyouwonderif it’s
possible to reset a show’sprioritiesbyunplugging it and then plugging it back in.)
And there’s no denying that many of the
concerns that dogged the first half of season
one (such as the show’s seeming reluctance
to engage with the white supremacy, brutal
patriarchy, and Orientalism embedded in
the conception of the parks) were later
answered and expounded on (particularly
in a brilliant season-two stand-alone that
followed Zahn McClarnon’s Lakota warrior,
Akecheta, as he acquired self- awareness
and plotted to reunite with the wife he
adored in a canceled story line and figure
out how to escape).
The nagging fear that humankind is on
the brink of ceding its dominion thrums
under every scene. It’s the power source that
keeps the dramatic electricity running
whether the show is delivering on its con-
siderable promise, shambling into a narra-
tive or rhetorical cul-de-sac, or certifying its
HBO-ness by piling on gruesome murders,
tortures, and eviscerations that feel like nar-
ratively unimportant time-wasters. It’s the
most frustratingly not-quite-there show on
TV: structurally bold, visually arresting,
often brilliantly acted, show-off-ily erudite
(to the point of having three rich folks argue
the accuracy of a Plutarch quote during a
society gala), and woefully predisposed to
turn subtext into text. But its sense of dread
is so effective that it draws even skeptical
viewers into its narrative mazes, and the
self-regarding metafictional overlays invite
viewers to compare the series to video
games, Choose Your Own Adventure books,
myths, fables, philosophical and ethical sys-
tems, the assembly-line production of series
like Westworld, and the larger corporate
forces that affect TV storytelling.
In the first two seasons, reps from West-
world’s ownership, the Delos Corporation,
pressured the park’s co- creator Robert Ford
(Anthony Hopkins) to move away from
stories, characterizations, and
thought prompts and let guests
cut right to the sex, violence, and
acting out; that debate teased the
difference between erotica and
pornography and implied that,
among other things, Westworld
was also a critique of HBO’s moral-
relativity-based storytelling model, a for-
mula so successful that it seems to have
survived despite a takeover by AT&T, this
world’s version of the Delos Corporation.
Themost basic questions are variants of
ones that drive so much science fiction:
After this, what comes next? Will we recog-
nizeourselves afterward? Or will we be
transformed? Or destroyed? If we’re trans-
formed, what will be the cost to our species
andall the rest? If we’re destroyed, will our
replacements say we deserved it, if they
remember us at all? ■Aaron Paul
WESTWORLD
HBO.
SUNDAYS, 9 P.M.