In 1965, Frank Herbert’s Dune proposed questions few of the text’s contemporary science-fiction works considered, let alone conveyed. And arguably, why would they? When carving a path through the cosmos and pushing the human imagination to its absolute limits, why slow down?
Though there might not be any obvious harm in the Millenium Falcon endlessly darting across the universe, reality’s unchecked consumption of resources yields actual consequences. While that’s arguably the advantage of fiction, the grandest space operas fall short without at least a semblance of commentary about our own predicament.
However, Dune didn’t fall on entirely deaf ears. Even before David Lynch’s creative, albeit cumbersome adaptation in 1984, sci-fi rose to dissect the repercussions of industrial growth. Ridley Scott’s Alien, for instance, posits a bleak, commercialized future where the transport of hazardous materials — and organisms — has taken to the stars. Nearly 30 years later, James Cameron would effectively craft an interstellar Dances with Wolves in 2009’s Avatar. From Pixar’s Wall-E to Joseph Kosinski’s Oblivion, the genre continued to stretch its ecological legs.
This poses a unique challenge to Denis Villeneuve’s Dune. Simply going through the motions wouldn’t be enough to give this adaptation permeance, nor narrative cohesion given the sheer density of the original’s plot. Fortunately, Villeneuve approached this undertaking with tact, conjuring a world that is simple — at least as “simple” as Dune can be — while protecting and even enhancing a message that is as poignant as it is timely.
Arrakis for the 21st Century
At the heart of the film is its informal namesake. A seemingly desolate, desert planet, Arrakis harbors the most valuable resource in the entire universe. For the native Freman, who have adapted to live in symbiosis with their unforgiving environment, the “spice” is wielded as a sort of spiritual conduit, allowing them to transcendentally connect with their shared mythos. For the all-controlling Imperium, it’s the cognitive fuel necessary to circumvent the perils of warp-speed space travel. Arrakis is squeezed and the Freman are oppressed by one of the emperor’s subservient families, House Harkonnen, until the onset of the film.
Villeneuve’s composition of the world is at first glance bleak and muted. The skies are made dark by the emissions of the giant, mobile harvesters necessary for mining. The Imperium palace is surrounded by Arrakis’s only city and its inhabitants have become meek after generations of poverty and harsh rule. Yet, when shown a view of the uninterrupted expanse, the air glimmers with particles of spice, as if beckoning curiosity. This silent, yet nonetheless visible struggle between Arrakis’s naturalist spirituality and an insatiable colonist hunger is, in many ways, modernized by Villeneuve’s vision.
This is taken further with the depiction of “Shai-Hulud” — the iconic sandworms of Dune. Mile-long leviathans reminiscent of the Norse Jörmungandr, the previous interpretations of these giants have rarely missed the mark. Even so, Villeneuve takes the purpose of these behemoths further with a minor tweak. Rather than a protruding, classically trisected maw, the sandworms’ mouths are more reminiscent of a massive inquisitive eye. In a climactic moment, Paul Atreides (Timothée Chalamet) stares up towards one such mouth, which in turn appears to narrow and hone in on the, by comparison, microscopic character. The sandworm appears to consider Paul’s purpose, as if dissecting the machinations and desires of humankind that have exhausted the planet, before ultimately submerging back into the endless sands. This personification of the world, albeit brief, is something no adaptation has effectively conveyed.
Our Dear Baron
Behind the merciless and unempathetic circumstances of the Freman, Baron Harkonnen floats like an apathetic specter. Doing away with the over-the-top theatrics of Kenneth McMillan’s portrayal, Stellan Skarsgård’s Baron is grim, calculating and undeniably evil. Gone are the character’s spectacular flights and, in an improvement over the source material, his pedophilic implications. Instead, Villeneuve’s Baron is simple and direct with his villainy, needing only the timeless lust for power to propel his misanthropy.
This Baron says notably little, but it proves unnecessary given his presentation. When we first meet the Harkonnen patriarch, he is naked and perpetually showered in an unknown vapor. After his nephew, Rabban (Dave Bautista), vents about the imminent Atreides occupation on Arrakis, he quickly dismisses him, running the byproduct of the emissions he basks in across his face, in an image of perverse excess.
Later, in an almost identical scene, the Baron is submerged in a vat of pitch-black oil. In his best rendition of Apocalypse Now, he slowly rises from the vat, his body sporting a grotesque sheen from the thick concoction. Again, he appears to revel in this practice, as if it’s not enough for the finite resources he commands to sustain luxury. Instead, he must literally immerse himself in the lifeblood of his empire. And in doing so, Villueve successfully pushes the character further away from humanity and closer to a monster that represents today’s most toxic executives.
Liet-Kynes Reimagined
Though much can be pulled from the nature and conflict of Arrakis, Dune’s complexity necessitates a conduit for the message. Liet-Kynes (Sharon Duncan-Brewster) is a Freman and Imperium ecologist that serves to guide the reigning houses throughout their operations on the planet. Deeply in tune with the world’s nature, Liet-Kynes is largely objective, chiming in only to elaborate, but rarely passes a form of judgment, at least until Dune’s final movement.
Though the character itself is interesting and ultimately necessary, their classically white, male portrayal feels negligent in hindsight. Sharon Duncan-Brewster’s portrayal doesn’t fundamentally change the character, but it does craft someone with significantly more stakes. Arguably, the inherent path to Liet-Kynes’s allegiance lies in her daughter, but the motivations Villeneuve opts to explore seem to run even deeper. The character still complies with the Imperium, but in this adaptation, they exercise a level of agency that’s lost amid their explanations of Arrakis which, in 1984, came off as less intriguing and more like hot air.
Villeneuve’s Liet-Kynes is succinct, maybe even truncated, but their purpose remains as intact as it is necessary. And with any luck, there may be further opportunities to explore the character, even if only in spirit.
Rest assured, 2021’s Dune not only protects its source’s ecological message — it enhances it. And with any luck, the potential franchise this film sparks won’t just yield a relevant message, but one we will continue to need.
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