DUNE I, II
With the release of the third part of “Dune” now fast approaching, the text that follows could serve as a recap of the first and second parts — which enjoy widespread acclaim, and rightly so.
When it was announced that there would be another attempt to adapt at least the first few books of “Dune” for the big screen, two thoughts immediately came to mind: “they’re going to lose their money,” and “who would bother, once again, to translate that heavy atmosphere onto the screen?”
Reasonable questions.
This is a point worth dwelling on: for some mysterious reason that is still being investigated, David Lynch, that unique case of an auteur who invented a mixture of thriller with strong psychobilly elements and metaphysical immersion, decided that he was interested in the epic of “Dune”.
Lynch has secured a place in the history of cinema by creating “Blue Velvet” (1986) and “Mallholland Drive” (2001), among others, as well as a place in the history of television with the dreamlike “Twin Peaks” (1990–1991, 2017). But, in 1984, his vision was not yet widely known.
The public harbored reservations, as the acceptance of the “Dune” books — at least in the sense we understand it today — was not a given, nor had Lynch’s status been definitively established. The bar had already been set high, thanks to the unimaginable success of “Star Wars” (beginning in 1977) and other productions that would later help define the concept of a “franchise” — such as the iconic “Indiana Jones” series, which debuted in 1981. By this point, however, expectations were running high — high enough, perhaps, to set those reservations aside.
Fair enough — though it became clear from the very first minute of watching David Lynch’s version of “Dune” that the film was aimed at introverted and well-read viewers. It cultivated a more than necessary heavy atmosphere — so heavy, in fact, that it nearly hindered the viewing experience. At the same time, it was evident that great care had been taken regarding the metaphysical element that underpins much of the plot — a fundamental prerequisite for its adaptation to the screen.
The books convey to the reader that particular weight — essential for grasping the critical nature of the historical events that unfold following humanity’s expansion to other planets. Yet, humanity had no intention of ceasing to be plagued by its inherent flaws and mortal sins — even though the exodus from Earth was undertaken, at least in part, to leave behind all the darkness it had itself created. And yet, it carried that darkness along to these new worlds, adapting it to suit the prevailing conditions.
Let us finally turn to Arrakis. Its utterly inhospitable environment would, in theory, render the planet useless. Yet this is only an appearance; for the vast deposits of the mineral — symbolically named “spice” — are of such significance that the planet seems to be the very center of the world. A series of conspiracies engages the viewer — not in the manner of a detective novel, a thriller, or a war adventure, but rather in the way such narratives are constructed by great playwrights, whose works have been staged continuously for thousands of years.
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This refers, of course, to Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus, all of whom explored the House of Atreus. Through the tragedies they authored — as all three focused on this particular family — we have become somewhat familiar with Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and three of their children: Iphigenia, Electra, and Orestes. They are all Atreidae, a lineage whose ancient family tree traces back to Zeus himself. In the same vein, according to Frank Herbert, Paul — the central protagonist portrayed by Timothée Chalamet in the recent films — is also an Atreides, as is his father, Leto Atreides (played by Oscar Isaac), who is murdered almost at the beginning of the epic. As a result, it falls to Paul to restore the family name — as they are one of the noble houses — but also their dominion over Arrakis. Yet, at a certain point, it is revealed that Paul is not quite the Atreides he himself might have wished to be.
Frank Herbert wrote the first six books, followed by his son, Brian Herbert, and Kevin J. Anderson, who have collaborated to expand the “Dune” universe — building upon the original, brilliant conception of an atmosphere defined by menace and uncontrollable impulses.
Regarding this atmosphere, Frank Herbert himself makes it clear that he drew inspiration from the tragedies of the House of Atreus.
David Lynch had certainly realized this as well, seeing that both the ancient conception of the subject matter and Frank Herbert’s take on it partially overlap with his own vision for depicting terror — the kind that can seize anyone who suddenly finds themselves entirely alone, facing an abrupt and definitive existential dead end. This aspect may well explain Lynch’s involvement as director of “Dune”.
A vision that brings us to Denis Villeneuve. It was evident as early as ten years ago that he would be capable of taking on the kind of challenge which, in the event of failure, would likely have ended the career of any director of his stature. This was evident from the exceptional films “Prisoners” (2013), “Sicario” (2015), and “Blade Runner 2049” (2017), as well as the superb “Arrival,” which preceded them in 2016. Each one deserves an analysis of its own.
When such significant capital is invested in the talents of specific artists — with the expectation of profit, no less — maintaining a balance between inspiration and artistic integrity on one hand, and financial viability on the other, becomes a true feat. It was an incredibly bold and risky endeavor; the first part was released in 2021, in the midst of the pandemic, serving merely as an introduction to the “Dune” saga. It did not even fully cover the first book, and it ran the risk of failing to facilitate the essential process for any viewer: identifying aspects of themselves within the work before them.
And yet, thanks to the masterful precision that has come to define Denis Villeneuve’s vision and directorial approach, the film became a global success. This played a pivotal role in supporting cinema during the unprecedented health crisis of the pandemic — a period that posed such grave risks to both physical and mental well-being. The connection was successfully forged; audiences found ways to identify with the material — but this, in turn, creates high expectations for what is to follow.
Three years later, it not only retained the ability to escalate the plot and suspense, but also a wisely calculated part of the heavy atmosphere invented by Frank Herbert. David Lynch transferred it to his film intact, but Villeneuve tempered it enough to be tolerated by viewers who cannot stand such suffocating situations; but also acceptable to those interested in seeing how he would perform it, so as not to betray the first book. It kept, among other features, the heavy fortified buildings, the rituals, the sudden intensities of the inner voice of the Bene Gesserit, whose history has already been broadcast in a separate television series. The even greater success of the second part compared to the first shows that he correctly assessed, correctly guided the actors, correctly burdened the environment of Arrakis, the buildings, the interiors.
Villeneuve, as far as is known, has not made the slightest mention of influences from the tragedies of the house of Atreus, perhaps because he has simply not been asked such a question, or perhaps because he leaves this topic to the writers.
But more so because he sees religious elements that refer to certain impressions from his childhood, as he has mentioned. He has a different starting point, which, however, seems to work just as effectively as that of Frank Herbert.
We are, of course, awaiting the third part — from what is now the second book — to see how this uniqueness unfolds.
