A sense of macabre and absurd is a good indicator that you’ve stepped into Denis Villeneuve’s cinema. From Maelström (2000), where the story is told by a fish awaiting its death, to Next Floor (2008), a short film depicting a gourmet feast gradually turning into an experience of greed and abjectness, to the police drama Polytechnique (2009), based on the 1989 Montreal Massacre, and the family drama Incendies (2010), serving as a backdrop for fictionalizing the violent atmosphere in the Middle East, the Canadian art-house director, who has since converted to the Hollywood production system, brings his “monstrous” touch to Dune, highlighting the dark undertones of the literary material. The director showcases a mix of influences ranging from Greek mythology to Jungian psychology, while also paying homage to canonical films such as Triumph of the Will (1935, Leni Riefenstahl) or Lawrence of Arabia (1962, David Lean), which Villeneuve has stated played an essential role in shaping his identity as a filmmaker.

Frank Herbert’s 1965 novel has seen some odd attempts at screen adaptation over time, such as David Lynch’s film (which the director himself ended up disowning) and Alejandro Jodorowski’s unfinished project. Villeneuve critically distances himself from the avant-garde visions of the two, making the idiosyncrasies of the science fiction narrative the domain of visual spectacle with a self-assumed dose of grandeur that deprives the film of humanity (see the scenes where the Fremen extract the lifeblood from their enemies). Beyond his overt fixation for the book, the director is interested in building the Dunevers architecturally and technologically, rather than ideologically.

The internal mechanics of the novel are transcribed at a much slower pace, essentializing the dialogues, so the two parts so far barely cover 800 pages, unlike Lynch, who compressed the entire book into just two hours.

One might suspect Villeneuve of feeding his expansionist ambitions by strategically thinking about extending the franchise, given that the sequel still feels like a groundwork for future acts. Although more dense in stratospheric conflict and more kinetic in combat than the first part, the final impression is that it doesn’t push the story forward enough to move beyond Act I. The first part served to introduce a jargon-laden mythology and a distinct place, a hostile desert planet whose people, the Fremen, have been physically and psychologically marked by a mysterious and highly coveted natural resource, colloquially called “spice”, produced by giant sandworms revered in their primitive religion as Shai Hulud. Spice is vital, but it’s also an addictive, consciousness-altering drug that turns eyes intensely blue.

On a Hamletian mission to avenge his father, Paul Atreides (Timothée Chalamet) now tries to earn his place among the Fremen of Arrakis, becoming a messianic figure, a liberating prophet, the so-called Muad’Dib, for a group of people coded as Muslims (an allegory of the Middle East invaded by whites coveting oil resources). But the anti-colonial undercurrent is at odds with the heroic journey of the white man coming to save a backward population.

The Fremen are led by Stilgar (Javier Bardem), a battle-hardened mystic projecting moral authority over the community, convinced that Paul, once converted, could become the ultimate savior, a premonition he repeats like a religious incantation. More suspicious is Chani (Zendaya), the subject of Paul’s premonitory dreams, but also the secular voice of reason trying to open the eyes of others to the way Bene Gesserit dogma is used to exploit the Fremen. The romance between Paul and Chani is sketchy and at times seems forced, especially in the romantic moments that suddenly pump up in intensity, while the actors’ chemistry doesn’t quite match the maximalism of the lines.

Dune: Part Two adds new famous names to an already impressive cast: Austin Butler as the fetishistic nephew of Baron Harkonnen (the main antagonist), a somewhat more campy character than the rest; Lea Seydoux as a secret agent leveraging her powers of seduction; Florence Pugh as Princess Irulan, daughter of Galactic Emperor Shaddam IV, played by Christopher Walken in a rather self-ironic manner. Incidentally, the cast itself feels like a playground designed by Villeneuve to bring together the favorite actors in the industry, not necessarily those best suited for the role. Still, the film leaves you yearning for more screen time with each A-lister, as they are so meticulously instrumentalized that they seem marginalized even when in the spotlight.

The director strongly shapes this world through striking contrasts, whether visual (e.g. the members of House Harkonnen with their cadaveric skin and black garments) or auditory – Hans Zimmer’s score differentiates the two cultures with more metallic sounds for the Harkonnens and more volcanic sounds for the Fremen. The impression is that Villeneuve invests more in appearance, in production design aiming to be a spectacle of shapes and textures (the cinematography by Greig Fraser and the editing by Joe Walker are praiseworthy), rather than in the speculative Herbertian history carrying an anti-colonial and anti-demagogic message. The second part is ultimately too monotonous to provide a sharp political commentary.

Hollywood comes with a new binary worldview where the bad guys, the Harkonnens, are caricatured, while the Fremen, as religious fundamentalists, are meant to maintain the status quo rather than question it. As Villeneuve’s films become more spectacular, their gravity seems to decrease.

Ramona Aristide

Film critic. She graduated from Filmology at UNATC. She writes and sometimes moderates discussions.