When I watched the opening scenes of Denis Villeneuve’s Dune (2021) with my youngest child, it was a nostalgic experience that transported me back decades.
As a devoted fan of the Dune universe since I first read Frank Herbert’s novels, the release of the first film sparked a re-reading of the original trilogy. Seeing Dune: Part 2 this week at a special Warner Bros. screening filled me with mixed emotions. While I should have celebrated the end of the bad adaptation curse surrounding this franchise, I found myself wrestling with the urge to critique the films. Both are beautifully crafted, yet as a sci-fi enthusiast, I question whether they truly do justice to Herbert’s groundbreaking 1965 novel. (This review contains spoilers).
In the first film, the Gom Jabbar test is a crucial moment for young Paul Atreides (Timothée Chalamet), who is destined to be a Duke of the galaxy's Great Houses. The Bene Gesserit, a powerful sisterhood, need to determine if he is truly human. The Reverend Mother forces him to place his hand in a box that inflicts excruciating pain, threatening him with the lethal Gom Jabbar if he withdraws. This scene tests whether his animal instincts will override his human awareness.
Paul's mother, Jessica—also a Bene Gesserit—waits anxiously outside, reciting the “Litany Against Fear,” a deeply moving passage that resonates throughout both the book and the film. As a child, this litany helped me conquer my own fears, which I passed on to my children as part of my parenting philosophy.
The portrayal of this scene in the film assuaged my concerns about fidelity to the book. It made me forget the disjointed memories from the 1984 David Lynch adaptation, which, despite its iconic moments, struggled to condense the epic story into a two-hour runtime. Villeneuve's cast—Chalamet, Zendaya, Rebecca Ferguson, and others—delivered stellar performances.
Pivotal moments like the Litany Against Fear are vital for immersing viewers in characters' psyches. These elements transformed the original book into a masterpiece, driving me to explore all six of Herbert’s novels, as well as another six written by his son Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson. Now, with 16 additional books in the Dune universe, the depth of this franchise makes it a standout in science fiction.
Villeneuve’s first Dune film garnered critical acclaim, and Dune: Part 2 possesses moments of brilliance in its cinematic execution. The striking visuals of the Fremen riding colossal sandworms across the Arrakis desert surpassed my expectations, revealing the mechanics of utilizing these immense creatures for human advantage.
However, Part 2 suffers from pacing issues. The first half of the novel focuses on revealing the intricacies of Dune, palace politics, and the tragic downfall of House Atreides. As Paul and Jessica flee into the desert, the narrative slows, allowing for character development and Paul’s struggle against fulfilling a terrifying destiny as a messianic figure whose rise could lead to a catastrophic jihad.
The film does incorporate drug-induced sequences reflecting themes from the 1960s, which may challenge viewers unfamiliar with the material. Nevertheless, it manages to expertly transition the story from action-driven scenes to quieter, more introspective moments.
The Harkonnens, led by the sadistic Feyd Rautha (Austin Butler), are effectively portrayed as a malevolent force. While Butler lacks the star power of Sting from the earlier adaptation, he brings an unsettling presence to the role. The stark dichotomy between the oppressive Harkonnen regime and the nobility of House Atreides provides critical context.
However, I do miss the character of Count Fenring, who embodies the political machinations connecting the Bene Gesserit and House Corrino. Villeneuve’s decision to minimize or omit certain minor characters like Thufir Hawat raises questions for die-hard fans. The Baron Harkonnen (Stellan Skarsgård), while effectively villainous, lacks the resolution of his literary counterpart, leading to slight dissatisfaction.
Visually, the special effects across both films are stunning. The representation of sandworms is particularly breathtaking. However, some scenes, like the cityscape of Arrakeen, occasionally appear overly simplistic. The ornithopters and shimmering shields add to the immersive experience, while the consequences of using lasers against shields are seamlessly integrated.
Some film adaptations improve on the source material, such as Gurney Halleck’s opportunity for closure with the Beast Rabban. Nonetheless, missing elements frustrate dedicated fans—the Spacing Guild, a crucial faction in the book’s political landscape, is entirely absent. Villeneuve replaces this with a less compelling narrative device regarding Fremen invisibility to Harkonnen forces.
Despite its length—Dune: Part 1 runs 2 hours and 17 minutes, while Part 2 stretches to 2 hours and 46 minutes—critical elements are inevitably cut. The emotional culmination of Paul’s conflicting loyalties to Chani and the emperor's daughter introduces fresh tension, yet diverges significantly from the book’s resolution.
As I reflect on these adaptations, I grapple with the question of whether experiencing the films negates the need to read the books. Yet, the rich narrative and thematic depth of Herbert’s universe urge readers to delve into the source material. With 29 books and counting, Herbert and subsequent authors have built a complex transmedia universe worth exploring.
Herbert’s narrative explores essential themes, drawing parallels between politics, ecology, and spiritual beliefs within a science fiction setting. The Dune universe encompasses nuanced reflections on contemporary issues that remain relevant today.
In light of the challenges facing these adaptations, I ponder the potential of a dedicated streaming series to fully capture the richness of Dune without sacrificing depth. Just as franchises like Tolkien or the Marvel Cinematic Universe enrich their narratives, Dune deserves continued exploration.
Ultimately, I encourage readers and viewers alike to engage with all interpretations of Herbert’s profound work.
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