We present the second and final part of Portsmouth journalism student Emil Hallqvist’s deep dive into the Dune phenomenon.
Part III: Comparisons, Improvements and Differences
Where in this vast thematic desert do our hunter-seekers find Dune: Part Two? Does it fulfil its purpose? Does it satisfy book enthusiasts and general audiences alike? Does it realise Herbert’s vision and build upon his legacy?
Before Villeneuve’s first instalment (in what we now must assume to become a trilogy) premiered in 2021, Dune had escaped my radar. The trailer and concept were appealing, and I already knew Villeneuve was a masterful science fiction director, so when I sat down in my local theatre, I was expecting quality, at the very least. It took the film two minutes to enchant me, and after leaving the theatre, I was eager to dive headlong into the novel.
The first viewing was overwhelming, and I strongly disagreed with anyone claiming the movie was ponderous and slow. It was sensory
overload, and when I left the theatre, I was exhausted. Not so much when watching its sequel. When the projector turned on in the winter of 2024, I returned to the deserts of Arrakis from a radically different disposition. I was familiar with the world, its characters and where the story was heading. Having read and re-read the novel, I grasped the overarching narrative and the many themes. Instead of perishing beneath the sandworm-sized load of impressions, I could enjoy each scene, each moment, and determine whether or not Villeneuve succeeded in his pursuit.
Dune: Part Two is, without a doubt, a faithful, assiduous adaptation. Changes are inevitable. Some are inconsequential, while others reverberate with a rippling effect, altering the narrative quite drastically. The film follows the storyline without major deviations until Jessica undergoes the space agony, acquiring the genetic memories of all previous Reverend Mothers. In the novel, we jump forward two years into the future after the ceremony has ended. By then, the Fremen have willingly submitted to Paul’s rule, and he is regarded as the prophesied messiah. Paul’s prescience revealed the danger in this pursuit, but instead of circumventing the growth of his following,
Paul embraced the prophecy and used it to his advantage. In the film, however, we do not leap into the future, but remain in the present, and Paul did not initially exploit the prophecy. Instead, he was terrified of his visions and what the future may bring if he continues on the path; he is actively avoiding it, but must ultimately succumb and travel south.
Early in the film, it was established that Paul was set on avenging his father, despite Jessica’s misgivings. ‘Your father didn’t believe in revenge,’ she told him after they had destroyed yet another Harkonnen spice harvester. Paul, however, let her know he did believe in revenge. This was the film’s narrative anchor; a goal which gives the film momentum. As the story progressed, we learned that what Paul desired might not be what he truthfully needed.
Revenge is an inherently destructive corruptive aspiration, and the closer Paul got to it, the further away from compassion he drifted. Initially, his intentions were valorous. He wished not to lead, not to be their prophesied messiah, and not to lead the Fremen to paradise. Rather, his main aim is to aid them in their centuries-old struggle against their ruthless oppressors. The Fremen, who were indifferent to the prospect, eventually welcomed Paul into their tribe, not because of superstitious promises, but because he had proven himself as an asset.
Paul eventually removed his father Leto’s ducal signet ring – a memento tying Paul to the hierarchical galactic system which perpetuates exploitation of the poor – which signified a progressive change in character. He abandoned the archaic power structure and joined the Fremen on equal terms, sharing the animosity towards House Harkonnen. The visions of the holy war, the widespread starvation and misery, and the incomprehensible number of casualties continued to torment Paul. Yet with every victory, with every success, he attained more power, trust and reverence from the Fremen. Absolute control was what he dreaded, but his seemingly pre-determined fate
was guiding him to it. When Paul reunited with Gurney at the midpoint of the film, he illustrated how former friends had turned into followers, and how the myth of Lisan al Gaib had cemented itself in the Fremen mentality among everyone except for Chani (which we will return to later).
The Bene Gesserit planted the seed, but the Fremen watered it until the flower’s petals were shining and illustrious. Already, Herbert’s premonitions were visible. Charismatic leaders must always be approached cautiously. Even Paul was cognisant of this, but the context wherein he operated built on the myth until the weight was too heavy to oppose. Paul journeyed south instead of remaining in the
north. He was lost, confused and conflicted; south meant following the disastrous path, but it seemed destiny had decided otherwise. It was not, however, until after he had visions of Jamis and Alia speaking with him, that he was convinced to depart. In the vision, Paul approached the shoreline of Arrakis, with ocean waves beating against it.
This might have been a glimpse into Arrakis’s past, when it was a green paradise. Or, it might have represented one potential future,
where the Fremen are liberated and their dream is realised. As the vision continued, Paul heard Jamis speak of sight, and the vitality of having a clear vision of the upcoming path. Alia, his unborn sister, told him she believed in him and that he must open his inner eye. In this past, Paul sees a possible future, but only by drinking the Water of Life will he reach his full potential. The vision convinced him of it, and it was after this ceremony that everything changed.
Paul’s drank the Water of Life, and his visions became clear. Whereas he had previously resisted the myth of his ascension, he now fed the fire until its flames reached the roof of all the sietches. Leto’s ducal signet ring, the symbol of Fremen oppression, returned to his finger and he assumed his father’s title as Duke of Arrakis. Paul buried his humanity in the sand and commanded the Fremen with authority. Not as a respectable fedayking, but as the Lisan al-Gaib. Together, they defeated the Emperor and waged war against the Great Houses. Revenge, retribution and power had, by the film’s end, completely consumed Paul, until he became a vessel transmitting its poisonous allure. As the Kwisatz Haderach, Paul lived with the collective consciousness of all of his ancestors. Paul the individual became obsolete as his mind transformed into a collection of voices, and his body into their vessel. Empathy for the individual vanished as death and destruction became a necessity for success.
When casualties in war are reduced to numbers, statistics, and a necessary evil, it strips them of their identities. The unfortunate result is that sympathy for the suffering escapes the mind; we might recognise it as a tragedy, but without any emotional involvement. As we discussed, Herbert hoped to warn us of the inherent danger in entrusting charismatic leaders with absolute authority. In this depiction of Paul, Villeneuve successfully reflected Herbert’s goal. Paul is the embodiment of absolute authority’s corruptive nature, and Villeneuve has definitely conveyed Herbert’s message. Let us, therefore, return to the other changes Villeneuve made.
Part IV: Alia and Chani
Alia Atreides was one of Herbert’s wildest creations. In the novel, it was implied that she was born shortly after we left Paul and Jessica before the two-year time skip. So when we returned, she was two years old. Contrary to any two-year-old child in the real world, Alia is fully
cognisant resulting from her mother Jessica partaking in the Water of Life ceremony while pregnant. Alia is, therefore, a toddler with the consciousness of a Reverend Mother. She became a military leader, could speak eloquently, and slayed enemies with ruthlessness and expertise.
In the novel, she killed Baron Vladimir Harkonnen with her Gom Jabbar, not Paul with his knife. The sight of a rogue two-year-old running around Arrakis would not only have been too bizarre in Villeneuve’s adaptation, it would also have undercut the inherent mautrity of it. It worked in the novel precisely because the visual element was and is irrelevant. The imagination is a puzzling instrument and it can make even the most absurd seem plausible. In the film, however, Alia was confined to Jessica’s womb, and although this removed her physical presence, Alia herself was not forgotten. Alia became Jessica’s personal councillor and a voice of familiarity in a foreign land; unborn, yet fully conscious. This altered Jessica’s characterisation. In the novel, as Paul transcended the capabilities of the mortal body and soul, Jessica retained her humanity and served as the narrative’s emotional anchor. Villeneuve decided to paint Jessica in darker colours.
Throughout Dune: Part Two, Jessica developed into a seemingly malicious, estranged and divine figure, utilising her Bene Gesserit skills to subdue even the least devout of the Fremen. While Paul lamented his seemingly unavoidable destiny, actively avoiding the path of destruction, Jessica encouraged Paul to follow said trail. The Bene Gesserit planted the myth of Lisan al-Gaib, and Jessica intended to exploit this advantage. Rebecca Fergusson portrayed Jessica excellently and her transformation from loving mother, to Reverend Mother, and eventually into villainous manipulator, was believable. This could have been a major source of contention unless Villeneuve had decided to flesh out another character: Chani.
Chani was undoubtedly an important figure in Paul’s life, but Herbert did little to make her interesting in the novel. She believed in Paul, loved him dearly, and bore his children; nuance and complexity beyond this were, however, lacking. Thankfully, Villeneuve altered her role and personality. Chani never believed in the prophecy nor the fanatic following of Paul. She loved him for the human he was, but never admired nor worshipped him. As her peers transformed into pious, mindless warriors, she retained scepticism. She was the only character courageous enough to opine that this prophecy would enslave them. When she realised that Paul had succumbed to his transformation and denounced the noble cause he initially believed in, Chani escaped. The heartbreak she felt is contagious and we end up realising how detrimental this development truly was. Chani’s scepticism was rooted in her upbringing, which segways into the final difference
between novel and film worth discussing.
Part V: the Fremen
The Fremen in the film were a diverse people of many colours, shapes and sizes. Their cultures differed depending on where they originated. Arrakis’s southern hemisphere is a severe, sere and harsh environment, while the north is comparatively hospitable (yet water is precious regardless of where you are). The southern Fremen are, therefore, vehemently pious fundamentalists, while the northern Fremen approach religion critically. Stilgar and his southerners viewed Paul’s actions as omens confirming the prophecies, Chani and her northerners saw him as another off-worlder with voracious colonial wishes.
In the novel, the Fremen were depicted with less nuance. Religious scepticism was absent, and religion was their unifier. This change did not alter the narrative drastically, save for the aforementioned departure of Chani, but it did work in Villeneuve’s favour. Herbert wanted to warn us of the dangers of prophecy and blind faith, but in depicting the Fremen as uncritically devout, the warning lost its weight. We supported the people who were stout believers, and as we saw them prevail, we might as well have taken their prophecies as truths. Introducing sceptics and doubters who eventually transform into religious soldiers conveyed this message more poignantly; if the puppeteers (Jessica and Alia) pulled the right strings, everyone could turn, even those who outright opposed Paul. What also made the film interesting was how the audience, by the conventions of narrative, was led to root for the coloniser narrative. Paul was the revenge-seeking protagonist, the Fremen the unjustly oppressed, and if the prophecies were true, justice would prevail. As the film ended and the end goal was achieved, the holy war began. Fremen boarded the imperial shuttles and ships to wage war against the Great Houses of the Landsraad (which is also another interesting deviation; in the novel, Paul became the emperor of the universe by the end of the book).
‘Lisan al Gaib!’
Stilgar’s vehement roar was intoxicating. The Fremen, once oppressed and moulded into the fiercest warriors in the galaxy, will now become the oppressors. A war is coming, and suffering tags along. If Villeneuve had to capture one theme, it was this, and as we now have concluded,
Villeneuve did do so, majestically.
Epilogue
Writing a comprehensive all-encompassing analysis of Dune and Dune: Part Two is an overly ambitious project I dare not pursue. Much is still left unsaid about the book-and-film comparisons and the changes Villeneuve made; Shaddam and Irulan Corrino differ from the novel, the former is silent and reserved, almost fragile, while the latter is more active; Chani is part of the prophecy; Margot Fenring seduces and beds Feyd-Rautha to protect the bloodline; it was the Bene Gesserit who aspired to eliminate House Atreides, not the Emperor; how the
absurd, metaphysical and hallucinatory element of Dune are somewhat lost; House Harkonnen is rather colourful, flamboyant and talkative, particularly the Baron.
These may be inconsequential to an inevitable sequel, or they might impact the overarching
narrative drastically. Regardless of what they entail, the thematic core Frank Herbert explored is still maintained in Villeneuve’s adaptation. In some respects, the film is an improvement, while in others, it suffers from the inherent limitations of translating a novel into film. Thankfully, Dune: Part Two has been appraised by critics, audiences and Dune enthusiasts, so an adaptation of Dune Messiah seems inevitable. If Villeneuve continues to deliver with the same quality and passion, this trilogy might become our generation’s The Lord of the Rings. Both stories were published in the mid-20th century, yet their themes and messages are even more relevant today than they were when the books first hit the bookshelves. The environmental disaster Herbert feared is soon a reality.
Herbert and Tolkien detailed the corruptive mentality of industrialism and treating our world as a resource, yet it seems humanity has succumbed to it. The novels work as Paul’s prescience. In our past, we are warned of a possible future, but instead of heeding the written portents, we choose to fulfil the prophecies. Unless we discover spice and the capacity to traverse space and time enabling us to escape our deteriorating planet, our future might resemble the horrific visions Paul dreads. Slaughter, misery, death and suffering. We have the power to avoid human collapse. Pursuing said goal is, however, seemingly inconceivable. Instead, we remain in the past to hide the future. That is the issue with life: memories may persist, but the future will always become our present. And while we are in the present, we must aspire to protect the future. If not for ourselves, but for life itself. Pardot Kynes warned us. Herbert warned us. Villeneuve warns us. Will we listen, or will we try to ride the inevitable sandworm without maker hooks?
Bi-lal kaifa.
Image entitled ‘Logo du film Dune, deuxième partie’ re-used under a Creative Commons CC0 1.0 Universal Public Domain Dedication licence.
