Dune: Part Two is not a sequel but a continuation of Dune, so picks up exactly at the point you’d started to wonder if it would ever end. All I can remember from the first film is sand, sand, so much sand, and it must get everywhere, and into your sandwiches. But it is set in a massive desert so it goes without saying there would be a lot of sand. I don’t blame the sand especially.
There are all sorts of allegories at play; I’m not paid enough to think about them
Directed by Denis Villeneuve and based on the series of books by Frank Herbert, this second outing has already been hailed as “thrilling,” “breathtaking” and “a masterpiece” by those who are too easily carried away and said the same of the Marvel films — although I’m glad to say they are coming round to my way of thinking. To summarize where we were when we were praying for the last film to end: we were on the inhospitable desert planet of Arrakis which is famed for its rare and extremely valuable resource, “spice.” When the emperor shifted control of Arrakis from House Harkonnen to House Atreides it set off a conflict between the two families. After Duke Leto Atreides was murdered, his heir, Paul (Timothée Chalamet) and Paul’s mother, Jessica (Rebecca Ferguson), fled into the desert where they found sanctuary with the planet’s indigenous people, the Fremen. Here, we now discover, Paul does not plan to become an aromatherapist and develop his own brand of oils, even if I’d like to see that. Instead, he plans to retake Arrakis and avenge the death of his father.
It is a hero’s personal quest story even if we know from the get-go (there are prophecies) that Paul will survive and also that, even if he doesn’t comprehend his destiny yet, he is the “Kwisatz Haderach:” the savior. (There are all sorts of allegories at play; I’m not paid enough to think about them.) The set pieces — the battle scenes, the stadium scenes, the “sandworms” thrashing their way to the surface like the shark in Jaws — are swaggeringly spectacular but hardly suspenseful, as the victors are a foregone conclusion. The noise of it, meanwhile, is so ear-splitting that the sound travels up your legs and vibrates your coccyx. I am still throbbing. Overall, the good characters are insanely good while the bad characters are monstrously bad — and also bald, like Baron Harkonnen (Stellan Skarsgard) and his nephew, Feyd-Rautha (Austin Butler).
The cast is stacked with celebs. Aside from those already mentioned, we have Florence Pugh, Léa Seydoux, Anya Taylor-Joy, Zendaya and Javier Bardem. I find that I resent how excellent actors who could be doing interesting work get swallowed up by these films. (Chalamet was an interesting actor once.)
There is little character development and it’s not for the literal-minded — or anyone who has, despite their best efforts, paid some attention. Weren’t we told that no non-Arrakan would survive without wearing a “still suit” to recycle moisture? So why are they now doing without? Where have the Fremen’s bright blue eyes gone? Why, five hours into the franchise, have we never seen anyone take “spice” so we may properly understand its psychotropic properties? How do you even imbibe it?
Also, as Jessica is a member of the “Bene Gesserit,” a mysterious sisterhood, and has trained Paul in “The Voice” (which, when used, will command others to do his bidding), why doesn’t he just command the Harkonnen to put down their arms? “Because,” as my son, who is a fan, told me, “there would be no story then.”
It is purely about what it’s about, which is power. Who has it, who doesn’t, who wants it. I kept thinking things like: what do people eat around here? I can’t say. I can only say that if my family had ended up on Arrakis, my dad would be saying: “I want all that sand off you before you step foot in this car.”
This article was originally published in The Spectator’s UK magazine. Subscribe to the World edition here.
