Dune: Part Two

Denis Villeneuve's Dune: Part Two (2024) clearly is a cinematic achievement showcasing his utter mastery of the medium. The film's visual splendor, brought to life by cinematographer Greig Fraser, who stunned with his work on Kathryn Bigelow’s Zero Dark Thirty, transports viewers to the harsh yet mesmerizing world of Arrakis. Hans Zimmer's score, both relentless and engrossing, alternates between terrifying and sublime, enhancing the film's emotional impact. The seamless integration of special effects further solidifies the film's immersive quality. Richard Donner’s Superman was marketed with “You’ll believe a man can fly.” My four-year old self was convinced. But Dune: Part Two makes adults believe in flight.

Villeneuve's pacing, a hallmark of his directorial style, allows each scene to accumulate dramatic weight and narrative power. This approach, consistent with his work in 2021’s Dune, demonstrates his commitment to crafting a deliberate and impactful cinematic experience. It’s a slow roll to the climax, and much of it works.

We are living in an era of exceptional artistic production. While ideas remain as commonplace as ever, the sophistication of aesthetic skill and technique has reached unprecedented heights. Cinema enthusiasts can now enjoy spectacles in theaters and revisit a century of masterpieces at home, with large 4K televisions and wide color gamuts offering superior viewing experiences of films that have been restored and rescanned to dazzling effect.

Yet, despite the craft and vision, despite the brilliance of 2021’s Dune, despite the acting talent, production design, and costuming that engross and enchant and transport, Dune: Part Two fails for this single reason: Denis Villeneuve had a bad idea.

Peter Jackson's Hobbit trilogy (2012-2014) serves as a cautionary tale in this regard that I wish that Villeneuve could have heeded. Jackson made the great film trilogy in cinematic history with Lord of the Rings (2001-2003). And then, after legal disputes were settled, got the team back together and produced the most yawn-provoking, tedious, eight hours of celluloid conceivable, which, despite the brilliance and pathos of "The Last Goodbye" playing over the credits of the final Hobbit film, hardly justified the 470-minute runway it took before Billy Boyd landed with that minor victory. The three Hobbit films suffered from this bad idea – conceived either at the beginning of the project or well before pre-production began: we can do better than Tolkien; we can elevate his children's story to match the epic scope of Lord of the Rings and in so doing we will invent characters, dramas, and arcs that will echo those that Tolkien wove into Lord of the Rings. The problem with this idea is that Fran Walsh, Phillipa Boyens, and Peter Jackson, for all their talent, are not J.R.R. Tolkien; further, after years of success, they had become captive to the notion that a commercially successful film series must include commercially appealing tropes. The end result was such a narrative travesty that, if taken seriously, actually degrades The Lord of the Rings film adaptation because the Hobbit narrative renders the supposedly wise Gandalf (as well as Elrond and Galadriel) abominably foolish if we bother to watch the Hobbit films before The Lord of the Rings. Those three elders should have anticipated the finding of the Ring, and they should have expected Sauron’s return; after all, they already encountered him in Mirkwood (note to Tolkien nerds: I know that Jackson drew from Unfinished Tales and the Lord of the Rings appendices, but Jackson’s filmmaking choices render the identity of the “Necromancer” unambiguous). There are many fan edits of the three Hobbit films that edit them down to a single film that is true to Tolkien's tale. Those are the only versions I can watch. The acting, the music, the production are fantastic. Everything else that Jackson added are toxic confections of a bad idea.

Such is the case with Villeneuve and his second dive into Herbert’s tale. He has all the filmmaking skill, vision, resolve, and resources. Yet, he embraced a bad idea. He thought he could do better than Frank Herbert. Note, I am not opposed to minor revisions to an existing narrative in order to adapt a story to a new medium. Jackson's Lord of the Rings films are filled with successful adaptations that alter Tolkien's narrative. Yet, like Jackson when he approached The Hobbit, Villeneuve's approach to Dune: Part Two as he prepared the second installment was to liberally introduce arcs and tensions that were not present in the original while ignoring the ones that are there.

In the course of doing this, Villeneuve managed to take Herbert's story, which is anything but superficial, and reduce the relationship between Paul Atreides and Chani – key figures in the drama – to something out of a YA novelette. I sat in the theater this past March and my jaw dropped as Villeneuve dedicated screen time to showing Chani as a spurned lover riding a sand worm away in a fit of adolescent pique. What was even worse is that this is how he chose to conclude the film, as if to underscore that this is the philosophical “improvement” he has made to the novel: marry the wrong partner – even if the peace of all peoples is at stake – spurn your lover, and you are a bad person.

Readers of the novel will know that there was no such reaction from Chani when Atreides marries Princess Irulan, daughter of Emperor Shaddam IV. In fact, in the book – as if this is even necessary when the peace of an interstellar empire is at stake – Atreides even tells Chani that he will never have a child by Irulan. The marriage is clearly necessary to consolidate power between House Atreides and the Emperor's House Corrino. But, apparently, in Villeneuve's world – which matches the emotional maturity of a Disney Channel Original Movie – the strong, mature, experienced character of Chani is not capable of controlling her emotions or realizing the political stakes.

The consequence is that Villeneuve reproduces an enduring and destructive myth that Denis de Rougemont revealed in his 1939 work, Love in the Western World. Rougemont discusses the emergence of amor – courtly love – from the court of Marie de Champagne in twelfth century France. This love, which became the basis for our romantic love, was predicated upon adultery. The more obstacles interfering with a potential love affair – and the greatest of these obstacles was the social taboo of infidelity – the greater the passion and tension of an affair would increase. Twelfth-century author Andreas Capellanus even inscribed rules for courtly love that included prohibitions of such love occurring within marriage, which was seen as an institution that perpetuated family and contributed to social stability. Rougemont's work discusses how in the subsequent seven centuries, the Western World proceeded to form a new notion of marriage now based and predicated upon this twelfth-century notion of romance unfettered by marriage. He credits the rise of divorce rates to the untenability of relationships outliving their initial obstacles and the loss of passion – the foundation of many modern marriages – that results. In short, if Romeo and Juliet had lived and the Capulets and Montagues ceased their interminable war and peaceably showed up to feast at the wedding banquet, it would have likely ended in divorce for the lovely young couple. Not inevitably, but likely.

Villeneuve's portrayal of Chani and Paul's relationship in Dune: Part Two inadvertently echoes the problematic aspects of romantic love that de Rougemont critiques in Love in the Western World. Apparently, Chani is not capable of distinguishing between passion and the exigency of political marriages for the stability of the state. Paul gets it; his mother, in fact, was not married to his father but was a concubine. Villeneuve's Chani for all her strengths is not able to grasp this. Western post-medieval traditions glorified the pursuit of love rather than its fulfillment; therefore, Villeneuve breaks with Herbert and depicts Chani dramatically riding away on a sandworm, creating a spectacle of unfulfilled love that aligns more with modern romantic tropes than with Herbert's nuanced portrayal of their relationship.

Furthermore, de Rougemont's analysis of the conflict between passionate love and societal duty is particularly relevant to the political marriage between Paul and Irulan. In Herbert's novel, this union is understood as a necessary political maneuver, with Chani's acceptance reflecting a mature understanding of statecraft. Villeneuve's deviation from this portrays a more simplistic view of love and personal loyalty, one that aligns with what de Rougemont would describe as the modern conflation of romantic passion with marital commitment.

The film's treatment of Chani's character also resonates with de Rougemont's critique of how Western literature often reduces complex relationships to simplistic romantic narratives. By having Chani react with jealousy and hurt to Paul's political marriage, Villeneuve strips away the depth of her character as portrayed in Herbert's work, wherein she understands the larger implications of Paul's actions for the future of the empire.

In the novel Dune, Atreides and Chani even have a child, named Leto after Paul's father, a character absent in Dune: Part Two.

The result is that sexuality, marriage, and sophisticated political maneuvering are dumbed down in Villeneuve's adaptation. He makes Herbert appear to be unable to conceive of a strong, wise female character emerging from the Fremen. He dumbs down Herbert’s story wherein masculine sexuality and political allegiances are harnessed in order to facilitate societal stability; further, Villeneuve abuses Herbert’s depiction of female sexuality and its yearning for procreation by deleting the character of Leto Atreides II and, instead, abandoning Chani to her emotional storm; depicting her fleeing a role as leader in a new, potentially more stable government in favor of a desert wilderness wherein she can brood. In Herbert's work, Leto II represents not just the union of two individuals but the convergence of House Atreides and the Fremen. His absence in the film alters the trajectory of the story and the weight of the characters' choices.

The decision to alter Chani's character arc not only diminishes her strength and wisdom but also undermines the political complexity of Herbert's universe. In the novel, the relationship between Paul and Chani serves as a microcosm of larger themes of power, prophecy, and the weight of destiny. By reducing this to a more conventional romantic conflict, Villeneuve loses an opportunity to engage with the deeper philosophical questions that make Dune a seminal work of science fiction.

The film's treatment of the political marriage between Paul and Irulan also falls short of Herbert's nuanced portrayal. In the novel, this union is a calculated move that demonstrates Paul's growing understanding of imperial politics. By framing it primarily as a source of romantic conflict, Villeneuve misses an opportunity to explore the complexities of power and compromise in a feudal galactic society.

This simplification of relationships and political maneuvering in Dune: Part Two reflects a broader trend in contemporary adaptations of complex literary works. There seems to be an assumption that modern audiences require more straightforward narratives and clear-cut emotional conflicts, even at the cost of the source material's depth.

Villeneuve's Dune: Part Two represents a missed opportunity to explore the complex interplay of love, duty, and political necessity that Herbert wove throughout his novel. Instead, by simplifying the relationship of Atreides and Chani, the film inadvertently reinforces outdated romantic tropes that de Rougemont critiqued nearly a century ago.

Unbelievably, I have read not a word of critique about this. In a super sensitive society ready to pounce on any perceived lack of equity and equality between genders, there has been nothing but silence concerning this violence done to Herbert's characters, novel, and vision. I live an hour-and-a-half from where Herbert, in 1957, scanned the sand dunes on the Oregon coast and first conceived his epic tale; someone has to stick up for him.

This oversight in critical reception is particularly striking given the current cultural climate. The film industry and media have been increasingly scrutinized for their portrayal of gender roles and relationships, yet Villeneuve's reinterpretation of Chani's character seems to have escaped such analysis. Villeneuve hired a fine actress like Zendaya to portray a strong character in Dune and the first two thirds of Dune: Part Two – a character savvy about survival in the wilderness, cunning in navigating tribal politics, and unsentimental when facing death and struggle – only to have that character revert to cliches and stereotypes of female emotionalism as she embodies the threadbare trope of the spurned lover.

The absence of critique regarding this aspect of the film raises questions about the depth of cultural analysis applied to blockbuster adaptations. It suggests a potential disconnect between the nuanced themes of classic science fiction literature and their translation to modern cinema.

Perhaps it is a complacency among film critics and fans – wowed by technical achievements and visual spectacle – that leads them to overlook significant narrative alterations. Perhaps, in caricaturing Herbert’s work, Villeneuve is doing as Jackson did before him and investing his adaptation with a commercial appeal not integral to the original story, in this case a simplistic understanding of sexuality and character and society. The lack of engagement with the thematic changes between novel and film in the seven months since the film’s release in the States not only undermines Herbert's original work, but it dumbs down his legacy and subverts the potential for science fiction cinema to tackle complex, mature ideas. Villeneuve’s masterwork – destined to be lauded in next year’s Academy Awards – is an edifice built on shifting and unstable sands.

While Dune: Part Two is undeniably a technical marvel, its narrative choices represent a significant departure from the philosophical and political depth of Herbert's novel. By simplifying complex relationships and political dynamics, Villeneuve has created a film that, despite its visual grandeur, fails to capture the full richness of its source material. This adaptation serves as a cautionary tale about the challenges of translating nuanced literary works to the screen and the importance of preserving the core themes and character complexities that make such works enduring classics. Villeneuve did not have to do this if he had not fallen victim to his one bad idea. Many of his additions to Dune: Part Two in fact enhanced the cinematic depiction of Herbert’s story. For example, his addition of different Fremen denominations, likened to the Northern and Southern Fremen, added a greater realism to the challenges Atreides met when uniting the Arrakeen peoples. There is so much of the film that works and works well.

The film industry, and indeed the broader cultural conversation, would benefit from a more critical examination of how classic works are adapted for modern audiences. It is not adequate to create visual spectacle; the ideas and complexities that form the foundation of classic science fiction evaporate when they are adapted away into the ether. Adaptations, like original works, are part of an ongoing conversation between cinema and culture. Villeneuve’s Dune: Part Two just sent that conversation back decades while ostensibly adapting a story set many millennia in the future.