Set in 1985, this sequel to the pithy Westworld is all gloss and no substance. Westworld's vast pleasure centre, where any and every fantasy could be fulfilled by means of highly sophisticated humanoid robots, is rebuilt on an even more lavish and supposedly fail-safe scale. Leading diplomats plus the press are invited to sample the goods, and only one intrepid newshound (Fonda) suspects that all is not well. Instead of expanding the possibilities, the film opts for a guided tour of the various simulated marvels, from a Cape Kennedy blast-off and a chess game with holograms as the pieces to a ski-race down a Martian hillside. At one point there is an asinine dream sequence whose only relevance seems to be as a reminder that Yul Brynner played the lead resurgent robot in the parent film. The script, which labours under polysyllabic mumbo-jumbo at times, is infantile, while the performances, apart from a sprightly Danner as Fonda's TV cohort, are spineless.