In the first of two articles, University of Portsmouth journalism student Emil Hallqvist reflects on last year’s Dune: Part 2 and its part in the legacy of the classic science fiction novels.
Introduction
Frank Herbert’s Dune saga is often perceived as the single most influential science fiction novel released in the 20th century. His legacy parallels another, equally significant, literary mastermind: J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien revolutionised the fantasy genre with his magnum opus, The Lord of the Rings (1954-55), and proved that nuanced storytelling, romantic prose and thematically rich narratives were not reserved for realistic fiction. Tolkien’s trilogy is today inseparable from our cultural landscape, praised by scholars, intellectuals and ordinary folks alike for its intricate worldbuilding and exhilarating narrative. Nearly fifty years after its release, Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens miraculously created a cinematic adaptation (2001-2003) whose impact on cinema was as ground-breaking as the original three novels.
Tolkien’s achievement was to place the fantasy genre firmly in our collective consciousness. Similarly, Herbert took the once-absurd, abstract and rather corny genre of science fiction, and proved it also had infinite narrative and thematic potential. There is, however, one key difference between Herbert and Tolkien: their level of personal fame. Herbert’s work has rather unluckily evaded the minds of the masses. Instead, most people worship the manifold stories whose main inspiration is Dune rather than the man responsible for them.
Star Wars (1977) features a galactic empire, protagonists on desert planets and a massive space worm. George R. R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire series (1996-present) is a political drama with dynasties vying for power, not entirely different from the eternal rivalries between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. These are but two of the many pop-cultural juggernauts mirroring Herbert’s Dune. And as with The Lord of the Rings, Dune was long deemed too complex to ever be filmed. A couple of attempts have been made with mixed, often poor reception. It is here our journey begins — the first act of appreciation.
Part I: Bringing the Imagined to Life
In 1984, David Lynch made a less-than-satisfactory adaptation of Dune, which was a commercial and critical failure. According to the director himself, it is a film best left in the proverbial desert. Three decades later, Denis Villeneuve was entrusted with the monumental task of once again adapting the story for the big screen. Villeneuve’s repertoire preceding Dune: Part One (2021) proved the Canadian filmmaker might succeed where Lynch failed. Arrival (2016) and Blade Runner 2049 (2017) are exceptional science fiction films, each one an adaptation of a respected novel (1998’s Story of Your Life by Ted Chiang; 1968’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick). Arrival was a thought-provoking and imaginative take on the alien invasion story; Blade Runner 2049 was a worthy successor to Ridley Scott’s cult classic Blade Runner (1982), building on its themes and delving deeper into its philosophical dilemmas.
With each adaptation, Villeneuve demonstrated cinematic prowess and, more importantly, the ability to translate renowned literature into moving images. This is especially true of Dune: Part One and Dune: Part Two. Villeneuve’s passion for the novel is ever-present. The aesthetic is sleek, defined and realistic. Machines, vehicles, and settings on screen look so realistic they could almost fool you into believing the production team actually built Herbert’s imagined inventions. Furthermore, Villeneuve does not try to hide dissatisfactory visual effects behind quick, rigid cuts or various other common techniques. Instead, as if we were endowed with prescient abilities like our protagonist Paul, we see everything.
Herbert purposefully minimised detailed descriptions to activate his readers’ imaginations. Ornithopters, for example, are depicted as both bird-like and insect-like:
‘the [. . .] ‘thopter dived out of the night onto them, stooping like a giant hawk above the desert with wind screaming through its wings.’ (Dune, Chapter 22)
‘The captured ‘thopter took off with a lurching flap of wings, angled upward to the south in a steep, wing-tucked climb.’ (Dune, Chapter 24)
‘Wings snicked in to beetle stubs.’ (Dune, Chapter 25)
‘[a] ring of drone ornithopters came over a lifting of dunes like a swarm of insects following its queen.’ (Dune, Chapter 43)
‘ORNITHOPTER (commonly: ‘thopter): any aircraft capable of sustained wing-beat flight in the manner of birds.’ (Dune, Terminology of the Imperium)
Villeneuve’s ornithopters resemble dragonflies, and the spice harvesters crawl atop the dunes like gargantuan bugs. The insect aesthetic is prevalent and has broader thematic implications. On Arrakis, humans are mere insects compared to the mighty sandworms. But similarly to insects on planet Earth, human activity on Arrakis impacts the environment immensely; their role cannot and must not be ignored.
Dune: Part Two is undeniably a masterclass in technical filmmaking. Another praiseworthy aspect is the cinematography, which also builds theme and character. In the very first scene, Arrakis is painted in a violent and ferocious deep orange. As we follow Paul and the Fremen, the aggressive orange gives way to lighter hues of white and beige. Thus, you are exposed to the inhuman heat, the coarse sands, and the harsh, inhospitable climate. When we later traverse the galaxy to Giedi Prime, the planet of House Harkonnen, all colours vanish. Although Villeneuve and cinematographer Greig Fraser’s stylistic choice opposes the rather flamboyant descriptions in the
novel, it does, however, reflect House Harkonnen perfectly; a planet devoid of colour for a house devoid of humanity. The film was sadly deprived of the Oscar for Best Achievement in Cinematography, but did at least win in the categories Best Sound and Best Achievement in Visual Effects. I could continue praising the technical aspects of the film, but plenty more qualified people have already published excellent essays and analyses on these topics. Instead, let us discuss the less objective elements: theme, characterisation, and representation. Before that, however, we must first leap into the past and return to Herbert’s novel.
Part II: What is Dune?
Dune (1965) is an epic, poetic and hallucinatory space opera, that is infinitely complex, multi-layered and eerily relevant to us today, some sixty years after it was published. The narrative roller-coaster is equally exhilarating and thought-provoking, with a poignant message. Superficial interpretations claim Dune is a ‘white saviour’ story, featuring a divine coloniser descending from heaven to liberate the oppressed. This is, however, precisely what Herbert critiqued. In an interview at UCLA in 1985, he famously said: ‘I wrote the Dune series, because I had this idea, that charismatic leaders ought to come with a warning label on their forehead: may be dangerous to your health.’
One of the novel’s most emblematic quotes comes near its midpoint. Planetary ecologist Liet Kynes meanders through the desert whilst slowly succumbing to its heat. During his final moments, Liet hears his father, Pardot Kynes, speak to him, saying the following: ‘No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero.’ (Dune, Chapter 30)
This is, however, precisely what transpires. Paul Muad’Dib Atreides climbs the Fremen hierarchy and becomes their supreme, godlike patriarch. The devout are unflagging in their worship. They interpret Paul’s every action according to the prophecy of Lisan al-Gaib, ‘The Voice from the Outer World,’ said to lead them to paradise. Paul transforms into the messianic figure of legend, and when the novel reaches its triumphant climax, Paul has ended House Harkonnen — the former ruthless proprietors of Arrakis — and removed Emperor Shaddam IV from power.
Thus, Paul claims the throne and becomes the de facto emperor of the known universe. The Lisan al-Gaib myth Paul exploited to reach divinity was, interestingly but unsurprisingly, human-made. It was a myth deliberately planted by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood to function as an emergency plan if any member happened to get stranded on Arrakis. What began as a protective shield grew and flourished like a rainforest until the Fremen had incorporated this myth into their collective consciousness. Consequently, Paul’s ascension rested on a pillar of false promises, designed to gain and maintain control whilst preying on the Fremen’s misguided piety.
They eventually transform from oppressed survivors to the messiah’s unyielding soldiers. What followed was a holy war, the ‘jihad’, as Herbert named it, that spread death and destruction across the entire universe, resulting in trillions dead and unparalleled planetary decimation. The full ramifications of Paul’s conquest are explored in the sequel novel Dune: Messiah (1969), but the seeds of destruction were planted in its predecessor. Dune is not a white saviour story, hence the warning label Frank wanted to place on charismatic leaders.
On the same thread, critics have argued the Dune saga is yet another entry into the gender-discriminating hall of fiction, feeding the already bloated beast of female
oppression. The dukes, lords and emperor(s), i.e. the people with authority by imperial decree, are men. Women, however, exist in the periphery, or as beautiful decor next to their stately husbands. Although I have no degree in gender studies, I would argue that such a proclamation is parochial. The truth is unearthed once you untangle the intricate web that constructs Dune’s politics. ‘Behind every great man, there is a woman’ and in Dune, we have the Bene Gesserit.
The Bene Gesserit is, as depicted in the entire Dune saga, an all-female organisation comprised of scientists, spies, theologians and nuns. For millennia, they have conducted genetic experimentation and religious manipulation, and controlled intergalactic politics behind a veil of
secrecy and mysticism. Their ultimate purpose was to bring forth the Kwisatz Haderach — a being able to unlock the genetic memories of both their female and male ancestors — and ensure humanity’s survival. They are puppeteers who rule the rulers from the shadows.
History will remember the ‘great men’, but it was the Bene Gesserit who paved their roads. Whether the Sisterhood’s ambitions are ethical and truly altruistic is debatable. It is still an interesting creative decision by Herbert to construct a universe ruled by shadowy female figures with discipline, puissance and mysterious abilities. This is particularly poignant when considering the normative gender roles of the 1960s, which expected women to dedicate their lives to their husbands and
children.
Herbert’s work is not only a subtle gender-defying narrative, but also an ecocritical representation of human activity on Earth. The desert planet Arrakis is itself a character, with a rich and captivating history. In the past, Arrakis was a flourishing, diverse planet sprawling with life, not the barren, sere wasteland rife with sandworms. These gargantuan spice-creating desert worms were not native to Arrakis, but when their progenitor – a small species known as sandtrout – was brought to the planet, they triggered its metamorphosis (although it is not explicitly stated by Herbert, it is fair to assume the sandtrout were planted by humans).
As the sandtrout grew, multiplied and spread, it ‘encysted the available water’ (Children of Dune, Chapter 6) and made Arrakis into the desert planet depicted in the novel.
Restoring the planet to its former green glory is Liet Kynes’s main ambition. During his final moments in the desert, the hallucination of his father claims the following:
‘Men and their works have been a disease on the surface of their planets before now,’ his father said. ‘Nature tends to compensate for disease, to remove or encapsulate them, to incorporate them into the system in her own way.” (Dune, chapter 30)
When the novel begins, House Harkonnen and, subsequently, House Atreides, have the planetary fiefdom of Arrakis. They are thus, by imperial decree, entitled to harvest the geriatric spice melange. Spice is the single most valuable resource in the galaxy, and as the Baron said in Lynch’s 1984 adaptation: ‘He who controls the spice controls the universe.’
Arrakis is the spice-producing planet and has been exploited mercilessly for centuries by the Great Houses of the Landsraad, without consideration for the life it hosts. The rich get richer whilst the planet deteriorates. This is of little value to the money-hungry Houses, who reap the rewards. As long as the spice flows, the planet may suffer. Pardot’s claim is evidently accurate. Humans are parasites on Arrakis. The sandworms, although chaotic and destructive and, as revealed, not native, act as the planet’s immune system, trying to eradicate the infectious vermin contaminating their home.
It should come as no surprise that Herbert was an early environmentalist, and that Dune was a significant piece of literature in the green movement of the 60s and 70s. On Earth Day 1970, Herbert was quoted, saying: ‘I refuse to be put in the position of telling my grandchildren, “Sorry, there’s no more world for you. We used it up.”‘
This was nearly sixty years ago. Unfortunately, with every passing year, with every delayed plan, with every disappointing climate summit, planet Earth seems to be drifting towards an Arrakean metamorphosis. Herbert’s prescient visions of an environmental disaster seem like an inevitability. The realisation is quite depressing. Temperatures are rising, irregular weather patterns increase in frequency, the ecological holocaust accelerates, and soon, our planet may resemble the arid and sere planet envisioned by Herbert half a century ago. Much discussion may be held surrounding this annoyingly relevant theme, but that is not the purpose of my essay. It is, however, important to keep in mind when analysing both the novels and the films.
Finally, before we return to Villeneuve’s adaptation, we should direct attention to a closely related theme: colonialism. The native Fremen work in synergy with the planet, having harnessed its potential and gained much strength. Their colonisers are, contrarily, conducting holistic oppression; the planet and its populations are systematically labelled as resources, rightfully exploited without moral consideration. Centuries of oppression have, however, honed the Fremen and shaped them into the universe’s most ferocious warriors, often described as demonic fighters.
Secondly, they have been conditioned to believe in a coloniser narrative planted by the colonisers themselves. The ‘Lisan al Gaib’ or the ‘Voice From
the Outer World’ is an off-world prophet or messiah destined to liberate the Fremen. Thus, as the Fremen are devout, they await foreign salvation instead of actively pursuing it themselves. This is but a brief abbreviation of the many relevant themes presented in Dune. To avoid this essay becoming longer than a sandworm, we should now return to Villeneuve’s adaptation.
To be continued.
Image ‘Dune Sandworm.png’ has been re-used on a under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported license.
