Earlier this evening somebody on Twitter described Westworld as “soap-opera perfection.” In my book that reads as sprawling, echo-chamberish, complex for complexity’s sake, extended for the sake of filling a second season, hall of mirrors, and Chinese boxes that keep getting smaller and smaller. And with host after host getting stabbed in the gut with a really big fucking knife. (Westworld is as queer for belly stabbings as Nicolas Winding Refn‘s Drive.) Tonight’s episode, The Well-Tempered Clavier, came close to pissing me off. It certainly tested my patience.