Sects, Lies, and Videotape: Dune: Part One (Villeneuve, 2021) and Part Two (2024)

As I said, not many cinephiles in my social circle.

So Villeneuve it was. I told him it was a timely request, as the second part was dropping that November, and I could make it the subject of my November 2023 column… and now that it’s March 2024, and the strike is over, and Dune: Part Two is out, I can finally make good on my promise. And just in time for Easter! Let’s begin.

Sects!

Dune differs from all the previous subjects of this column in that the featured religion is entirely made up. I can already hear some of you cracking your knuckles and thinking, “Aren’t ALL religions made up LMAO?” Well, look at you, you would-be Voltaire! The Internet needs more people like you.

Dune, however, inhabits a different realm than, say, the works of L. Ron Hubbard, who makes shit up and expects us to believe it. Dune is also different from the increasingly real Jedi religion, whose foundation is a fictional story about an idealized society. Practicing Jedi do not (I hope) think Star Wars is real, but the franchise provides a model for beliefs and practices that its adherents find appealing. Dune is also different from Lord of the Rings, although we are getting closer to the mark. Lord of the  Rings takes place in the remote past of our own world and operates under the assumption that Christian truth claims are real, although Tolkien was not as hectoring about this as some of his drinking buddies.

Dune, on the other hand, takes place in the impossibly far-off future, where our descendants have shifted off to other worlds, including Arrakis, aka Dune. The operating assumption of Dune is that religion is a bunch of hokum that space witches and other bad actors use to control the masses. Dune is steadfastly cynical in its religious outlook. The religions of Dune do not reflect any existing belief system (even though they are a syncretistic patchwork of real-world religious concepts—more on this anon), and they are certainly not meant to be admired or imitated.

I may have buried the lede. Dune is the brainchild of one Frank Herbert, and when I speak of the religions of Dune, I mean the fictitious belief systems described in his seminal science fiction novel, first serialized in Analog magazine in the early 60s and then published in one volume by Chilton Books—America’s leading publisher of auto repair manuals—in 1965. It was followed by a sequel. And then another. And another. And another. And another. At which point Frank Herbert stopped because he was dead. But then his son Brian discovered Dad’s old outlines and, with the help of Kevin J. Anderson, the Star Wars novelist other Star Wars novelists look down upon, published a prequel to Dune. And then another. And another. And…

Science fiction franchises, like real-world religions, tend to have problems delimiting canon and authority. I am going to skirt past all that by focusing solely on the original novel, which is also the only one I have read. It’s also, incidentally, the only one that’s been adapted to film, if we discount the Sci-Fi (now Syfy) miniseries Children of Dune (which we probably should). I know that will be disappointing to some. I’ve heard the books go to some, uh, interesting places.

Now, what is this Dune thing actually about? The three pillars of Dune are ecology, Near Eastern mysticism, and some very, very gnarly drugs. The novel takes place nearly 25,000 years in the future, following a foundational event called the Butlerian Jihad that relegated all “thinking machines” to the dustbin. The only way to take (ahem) trips between planets is by huffing the magic mushroom space oil known as mélange or “spice.” The only planet where spice extraction is possible is Arrakis, which is a source of conflict between the rival houses of Atreides (good) and Harkonnen (ginger… or bald, depending on the adaptation).

Enter Paul Atreides, a classic victim of nominative determinism. His first name recalls the Apostle Paul, whose missionary work spread Christianity throughout the Roman Empire. His last name is a reference to the House of Atreus, the dynasty from Greek mythology with a multi-generational run of bad luck. Its most famous members are Agamemnon and Menelaus, who both had women trouble. Menelaus’ wife ran away with some nit, but they made up after he waged a ten-year war on the guy’s family and killed everyone. Agamemnon was less fortunate. His wife straight-up murdered him, leaving his son Orestes in a pickle about whether he had a moral obligation to kill Mom. If you want to know how this plays out, you have options: You could read or watch the Oresteia… or Hamlet, or The Lion King, or, yes, Dune. Debating about whether to kill toxic family members to avenge Pops is just a perennial human problem.

Paul is illustrative of Herbert’s tendency to mix his peanut butter with his chocolate. In the case of Paul Atreides, it’s Christianity and Greek tragedy, which is frankly a little has-been. More interesting is the frequently-referenced religious text called the Orange Catholic Bible, an oxymoron. Catholics aren’t Orange! Similarly, the oppressed Fremen (another oxymoron!), the sort-of natives of Arrakis, follow a religious philosophy called Zensunni, a sect of Buddislam. The Dune timeline is so far removed from our own that it absolves Herbert from having to explain how Zen Buddhism and Sunni Islam, two real-world religions with not much in common, became one, only that it happened in the year 1381 “Before Guild” (Dune takes place in 10191 After Guild; the current year is, according to my calculations, 14176 BG).

If the second appendix attached to the original novel (“The Religion of Dune”) is any indication, Herbert was fond of taking real-world concepts and slapping new meanings on them. He liked Arabic in particular. The Fremen have a book called Kitab al-Ibar, which is just unadorned Before Guild Arabic meaning “Book of Lessons” and is the title of a real book (just like Shah-nama, another Fremen book, except the title there is Persian). The glossary (of course this novel has a glossary) is filled with a number of Arabic terms both familiar and not, such as Adab (manners, belles lettres), Aql (reason), Ayat (sign), Baklawa (baklava), Cherem (forbidden), Dar al-Hikman (house of wisdom), Ilm (knowledge), Fiqh (jurisprudence), and even Ramadan and Sharia.

Some of the special terms in Dune are real Arabic constructions, but Herbert’s explanation of them is a little forced. Consider Paul’s messianic titles. Muaddib (مُؤَدِّب) is a real Arabic word, although with the guttural letter in a different place. But it does not mean “desert mouse.” It means “tutor” and is directly related to the word Adab mentioned above. Lisan al-Gaib (لسان الغيب) is also a construct phrase composed of words meaning “tongue” (the body part, but also any given language) and “hidden, occult.” So, if we were to translate it literally, it would be something like “hidden tongue” with the meaning, I guess, of “secret language” (Google Translate offers: “tongue of the unseen”). Translating that as “Voice from Another World” is a huge fucking stretch. The Fremen term for the ubiquitous Dune sandworms, Shai-hulud (شيء خولود ) just means “Immortal Thing.” I believe this is more or less correctly translated in the book. It’s just kind of a silly thing to call a worm, especially one with the same weakness as the Wicked Witch of the West.

The other major religious group, the Bene Gesserit, provides an interesting counterpoint to the Fremen. Their preferred language is Hebrew, embodied in the term Kwisatz Haderach, the messianic superman who is the cornerstone of their master plan to 1. Breed the Kwisatz Haderech; 2. ????; 3. PROFIT. The term comes from qefitzat ha-derekh (קפיצת הדרך), used in rabbinic literature to describe the ability to traverse great distances in a short period of time. I am familiar with the concept from Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, the rabbinic retelling of the Bible I studied for my thesis (so thank you, Dune, for reminding me of my thesis). Both Eliezer, the messenger of Abraham, and Jacob, the progenitor of all Israel, possess this power, which literally means “the jumping of the path.” Herbert wants us to believe it means “shortening the way,” which is… pretty accurate, actually. Bravo. Even though the Bene Gesserit are a cabal of matriarchal Svengalis, I do not believe they are meant to be an anti-Jewish stereotype. According to Brian Herbert, they are based on Frank’s many Irish Catholic aunts.

Lies!

Here is the periodic reminder that the Lies! section is about adaptational elements and not necessarily falsehoods. Dune has proven to be highly resistant to adaptation even though it has been done three times. The first, unsuccessful attempt was made by avant-garde director Alejandro Jodorowsky, director of the spiritual epics El Topo and The Holy Mountain. Dune seemed perfectly suited to his sensibilities, but he was a little too ambitious and wanted to make an overly long movie in the style of a bad trip. It never came to fruition, but there is nevertheless an entire documentary about the greatness of this movie that doesn’t exist.

The task of filming Dune eventually fell to David Lynch, a suitably weird guy, but maybe not Dune-weird. Lynchian weirdness erupts in the middle of suburban domesticity; Dune is pretty much the opposite of that. The world did not yet fully understand what “A David Lynch Film” meant. The proof of this is that he was considered to direct Return of the Jedi. Maybe Lynch himself didn’t yet know his career would be more Eraserhead and less The Elephant Man. One thing is certain: I would much rather watch David Lynch’s Return of the Jedi than Jodorowsky’s Dune.

Lynch’s Dune is half the length of the other two adaptations. It is wanting in narrative coherence (aka “A David Lynch Film”) but fully embraces the stuff that might make Dune unpalatable to a broad audience.

In this regard, Dune 1984 was successful because it was a huge box office bomb. It still has its defenders. I am not one of them. Neither is David Lynch.

The second adaptation was the Sci-Fi miniseries from 2000, the most expensive program on that incarnation of the channel. I have not seen it. Tim Brayton has. He describes it as “a dinner theater production that got a Broadway budget” and “like getting the fanciest meal at McDonald’s.” At least it’s unfailingly faithful to the book!

That bring us to Villeneuve’s two-parter. Psychedelia is out. Gritty realism is in. The words “Orange Catholic Bible” and “Butlerian Jihad” are never once uttered across the 5+ hours. This is not new. I don’t recall these terms being used in the Lynch film either. This is especially odd because I have encountered people who never studied Dune for their Nerd Mitzvah but can correctly use “Butlerian Jihad” in a sentence (e.g., “We need a Butlerian Jihad before this AI stuff really gets out of control!”). Witness the power of a novel so culturally prominent that it has been nationally lampooned.

The Villeneuve version doesn’t exactly shy away from religion. The Arabic messianic titles are all over the place, even though the Fremen language, as presented in these films, is absolutely not Arabic. Lisan al-Gaib is now a meme, to my chagrin. The Villeneuve films are also very fond of “Mahdi,” which is used only sparingly in the novel. This is a real messianic title in Islam, designating a future leader who will restore right worship and destroy Dajjal, the Antichrist. The Mahdi is either still alive or not yet born, meaning that Jesus is a candidate but Muhammad is not. I have also written about the Twelver belief that their last Imam, born in the tenth century and still hiding out somewhere, is the Mahdi. Its use in Dune makes me a little uncomfortable. It’s a reminder that Dune is often less a critique of colonial imperialism (which Villeneuve’s version desperately wants to be) and closer to Edward Said-style Orientalism.

If religion is preserved anywhere in the Villeneuve Dune, it’s in the bones of the plot. Despite its prodigious length, Dune does not actually have a lot of story. Like Gormenghast, it is a mood piece where hundreds of pages pass by and maybe four things happen. The plot can actually be written down on a cocktail napkin. I am going to do just that right now.

The plot of Dune conforms to a story structure called the Fugitive Hero Narrative Pattern. It was coined by my former teacher, Ed Greenstein, to describe a recurring story in Ancient Near Eastern prose, like the autobiography of Idrimi of Alalakh, which he inscribed on his own goofy statue.

There are also several examples in the Hebrew Bible, which might be more familiar to readers than Idrimi. See if you can guess them in advance!

1. The hero is a younger or youngest brother.
2. There occurs a political and/or personal crisis.
3. The hero flees or is exiled.
4. The hero enjoys the support of a female protector (sometimes a goddess).
5. The hero marries the daughter of his host in exile.
6. The hero assumes a position of responsibility in the host’s household.
7. The hero has a divine encounter (often divination or revelation).
8. The hero is joined by kin.
9. There is a seven-year period (usually of exile).
10. The hero repels an attack (or attacks).
11. The hero takes spoil or plunder.
12. The hero returns home.
13. The hero is restored to a position of leadership and/or honor.
14. The hero establishes or renews a cult (often appointing an immediate relative as priest).

This pattern does not apply to every biblical figure but only the most important. For Instance, it is the story of Jacob. It is also the story of Moses, who brought the Torah down from Sinai. It is ALSO the story of David, who captured Jerusalem, established it as his capital, and laid the groundwork for its all-important Temple.

The biographies of later religious figures also sometimes follow the Fugitive Hero pattern—because the author is consciously following the biblical model. Eusebius, the biographer of Constantine, overtly compared him to Moses and unwittingly used this pattern. It is also, crucially, the biography of Muhammad, the Fugitive Hero par excellence. His flight from Mecca to Medina is the literal beginning of the Islamic calendar.

Considering all the other Islamic influences in Dune, it does not seem totally out of left field to suggest that Paul is modeled on Muhammad. Other aspects of the novel—such as the Imperium, which seems to be simultaneously the Byzantine Empire and the Persian Empire (the title of the ruler is “Padishah Emperor”)—recall the geopolitical situation in the Middle East at the dawn of Islam. The Greeks and Persians were, in fact, engaged in a proxy war for control of South Arabia only a few decades before the birth of the Prophet, not unlike the contention over Arrakis between the Greek-in-name Atreides and whatever the hell the Harkonnens are supposed to be.

Videotape!

My biggest beef with the Villeneuve Dune is that it is two movies instead of one. I am sure there are some fine two-parters out there, but we live in a dark world where Wicked: Part One is on the horizon. What separates the art of cinema from the vast wasteland of television is finitude. I love a well-told story done in one go, and I suspect that Denis Villeneuve’s Dune is a single great movie hiding inside two very good ones.

The first movie, in particular, suffers from the lack of an ending. When House Atreides falls, I looked at my watch and realized that Villeneuve had reached this crucial plot point in about the same amount of time that Lynch had taken in his version. Yet there was much more time left in this movie. What was Villeneuve going to do with it? Not much, it turns out. The very existence of Dune: Part Two was contingent on the success of Part One, and if we ended with that wet fart of an ending, I would have been furious.

Now Part Two—that’s a five-star movie. And here they are!

I have never seen a movie assemble so many beautiful women… and then never have them talk to each other or even share screen time. I’m not talking about failing the Bechdel Test here. This movie isn’t even taking the Bechdel Test. At least they all have a palpable screen presence, which is more than I can say for Timothée Chalamet, an actor I have never liked and continue to dislike. He is so rail-thin that “presence” is an existential problem. If he forgets to eat, he might evaporate. I think I tolerate him because Paul is, at base, someone we are not really supposed to like.

Part Two is the Lawrence of Arabia portion of our program. A couple of times, I feared that Villeneuve was directly courting my familiarity with that masterpiece—a dangerous move because I greatly dislike being reminded of movies that are better than the one I am currently watching (there are, at most, three movies better than Lawrence of Arabia). At the very least, Part Two has terrific cinematography, terrific production design, and some memorable performances. Austin Butler’s Feyd-Rautha has completely wiped Sting from my memory. And Christopher Walken’s emperor does a lot with a little. I still don’t understand how the movie is so damn long. It takes nearly three hours to cover the last half-hour of the Lynch version. While I can name stuff that Villeneuve has taken out, I have a harder time naming anything of substance he has added, apart from some fine ‘splosions and more knife fights than a Borges short story collection.

Lawrence of Arabia is nearly four hours long, but it got in the whole story on the first try. Learn from the best, Villeneuve!

Gavin McDowell is a Hoosier by birth and French by adoption. He received his doctorate in “Languages, History, and Literature of the Ancient World from the Beginning until Late Antiquity” and is currently investigating Aramaic translations of the Bible. He also runs a book club out of Alternate Ending’s Discord, where we read novels and short stories that were later adapted to film. For more of his unprovoked movie opinions, see his Letterboxd account.