REVIEW: Dune: Part Two

This review contains substantial spoilers for the 2021 film, the 2024 film, and Frank Herbert’s original 1965 novel.

Alteration is almost always necessary when adapting a book into a film. It’s natural, really. Just compare the length of even a short audiobook to that of a typical short comedy or action movie. Even with film’s advantage of using visuals instead of description there’s just not enough time for a movie to present an entire work’s dialogue. Further (and more substantial) a book’s story is fundamentally about the interior of its characters. We read their thoughts, desires, fears. In contrast movies are exterior—we are watching.

Indeed, this is why adapting Frank Herbert’s Dune has such a rocky history. The book relies upon its third person omniscient point of view to present the dramas and ironies of each character’s political schemes and moral choices. David Lynch’s infamous 1984 adaptation sought to portray this through voiceovers by the actors, with… questionable results. Even moreso than other novels, the style of Dune necessitates conscious adaptation in a film.

There’s an important distinction, however, between adaptation and interpretation. Peter Jackson’s beloved Lord of the Rings trilogy, to my mind, is an excellent example of adaptation. Significant changes were made in translating the story from paper to cinema. The story’s themes and the characters’ internal qualities remained, however, largely the same. This also could be said of Alan Moore’s Watchmen. The graphic novel contains brilliant structural elements which only work in the comic book medium; they’re essentially unfilmable. The film adaptation makes necessary changes to adapt the story to its new medium while staying true to the comic’s plot.

Interpretation is quite popular right now, especially in film. Filmmakers seem to perceive a “need” to be subversive, to reinterpret beloved stories, characters, and even tropes. Amazon’s The Rings of Power loosely based upon Tolkien’s legendarium is the strongest example which comes to mind. I do not loathe interpretation, but neither do I have much taste for contemporary use of it. Interpretation is not in some sense intrinsically “bad.” Interpretation and re-interpretation of classic material is how we transition from admiring works made by a single artist into being a living culture. Stories which endure blend flexibility and consistency. Is the Iliad pro-war or anti-war? The epic glorifies heroic violence, and also weeps for its antagonist’s death. Interpretation of created works is strongest when the new version utilizes the old material in a manner which is both inventive and sincere. Shakespeare’s historical dramas excel at this.

Dune: Part 2 strikes me not as a successful adaptation, but as a successful interpretation of Herbert’s novel. I’ll not go into all the differences between the book and the movie here. Certainly a dozen three-hour YouTube videos have covered that ground by now! Rather, I want to look at how Denis Villeneuve has interpreted the novel, in my opinion, in a faithful manner. I also want to comment on changes specifically in the character of two people in Part 2: the Fremen chieftain Stilgar, and Paul’s lover Chani.

---

Keeping Faith

The tale of Paul Atreides in large part arose in Herbert’s imagination from the story of T.E. Lawrence “of Arabia” during the First World War. Its basic shape still remains within Dune. An outsider—Paul—comes to live among the desert tribes, guiding them and facilitating their resistance against another oppressive culture (in Lawrence’s case, the Ottoman Empire) for the good of his own. Nuances and layers distinguish Paul’s story from Lawrence’s role in the Arab Revolt. The basic shape, however, remains the same.

According to Villeneuve, Herbert viewed Paul as an anti-hero, and saw Dune as a warning “about a Messianic figure.” This does indeed contrast with the published novel, which ultimately tells the story from a decisively pro-Atreides perspective. Dune’s native Fremen are portrayed as neither naive nor foolish. As a true prophet reading the ebbs and swells of the future, Paul always struck me as a man striving to do his best with the circumstances into which he was thrust. He succeeds in leading (or manipulating) the Fremen to avenge his father and free Dune from the villainous Harkonnens. Paul remains conflicted about the choices he makes, and remorseful about the bloodshed caused by his zealous followers in the jihad which engulfs the galaxy after his rise to power. As the reader we know that Paul is no messiah. We know that the prophecy of the “Lisan al-Gaib,” the Voice from the Outer World, is artificial. But Paul’s powers are real.

Tell me—if you met a man who could read the future, who could tell you what you dreamed, who knew the dying words of your grandfather—not in a trivial way, not in the way of a Las Vegas variety show or a daytime TV psychic fraud—if you met such a man, would you not believe he was sent from beyond?

We know Paul is not. As the reader, we receive privileged access into how Paul’s sight works, into the secrets of him and the Bene Gesserit and the other religious mystics of Herbert’s novel. The Fremen of Dune know only their experience, their confrontation with a man who knows the impossible. Paul does not make the Fremen small or trivial in the original novel. He overwhelms them. To borrow a phrase from Robert Jordan, “He came like the wind, like the wind touched everything, and like the wind was gone” (A Memory of Light, p. 909).

Villeneuve’s interpretation of Dune changes the relationship between Paul and the Fremen. Stilgar and Chani are the best examples of this, which we’ll get to in a moment. More generally, the question among the Fremen in Part 2 becomes both “Is Paul the messiah?” and “Is there actually a messiah at all?” The latter is largely absent from the original novel. Paul is not universally acknowledged, but neither is there a split between “fundamentalist” Fremen seeking the messiah and the skeptics denying that a messiah will come. Dividing the Fremen this way emphasizes divisions between politics and religion in our own time. This narrowly avoids trivializing the Fremen because Villeneuve still avoids presenting them as primitive. It is possible to be materially poor, spiritually radical, and still intellectually sophisticated. The film emphasizes this with frequent portrayal of Fremen water technology and adaptive customs to the arid planet.

As Duke Leto promises Stilgar in Part 1, the desert is theirs forever. This is true of both the fundamentalists and the skeptics.

Shifting away from the dominance of religion in Fremen society proves to be a change of appearance, not substance. In both movie and novel the tale—and the triumph—ultimately belongs to the Fremen. Paul rallies and provides tactics, but it is Fremen bravery, ingenuity, and experience which overthrows the Harkonnens. Avoiding the religious worldbuilding of the O.C. Bible in the films disappointed me because this aspect of Herbert’s work connects his setting with our world. It emphasizes that Dune does not take place “in a galaxy far, far away.” However, introducing contemporary religious elements of extremism, terrorism, and doubt does not undermine the core themes of Herbert’s story. Both Dune and Villeneuve’s interpretation are centered upon the fact that this is the Fremen’s war, not Paul’s alone. As T.E. Lawrence says in Seven Pillars of Wisdom, “It was an Arab war waged and led by Arabs for an Arab aim in Arabia” (p. 23). This truth resonates through Lawrence, Herbert, and Villeneuve alike.

What then of our anti-hero? Is Villeneuve’s Paul honest to 1965? I’m inclined to say yes, though not (I believe) for the director’s own reasons.

First, the choices which Paul makes in Part 2 are largely the same as in the novel, and often for similar reasons. There is a surface-level honesty to this. He is more reluctant than in Dune to walk the path shown in prophecy, yet this is a matter of degree, not an invention of the film. In both works Paul strikes me as sincere in his admiration for the Fremen and his dedication to their cause. Again, there is a difference of degree here. In Part 2, Paul seems willing to give up the restoration of House Atreides until Harkonnen attacks force him to follow the only prophesied path forward. In the novel, he’d not dedicate himself that far to the Fremen cause. That doesn’t mean he lacked sincerity. Simply, each version of Paul had different limits to how far this sincerity went.

What Villeneuve’s film does very well is depict the process of making these choices. This is where I found the film to be honest to the substance of Herbert’s novel. Dune‘s Paul does not strike me as an anti-hero, nor as a villain (and in the film he doesn’t strike me as villainous, either). He combines reluctance and ruthlessness in a very human way, but that does not place him in the same category as, say, the infamous Thomas Covenant.

In Dune‘s pro-Atreides lens, Paul is quite solidly a hero. He is a hero who makes difficult choices, a hero who regrets his choices and wishes he found an alternative. He is terribly, achingly human. This is further emphasized in both Dune Messiah and Children of Dune. By using film techniques such as lighting, music, and pacing to provide new framing to the actions of the novel, Part 2 interprets the story of Paul Atreides as a moral drama. Villeneuve is wrong that the Paul of his film is an anti-hero; this Paul is a tragic hero.

Which probably explains why I enjoyed this film so damn much. I’m a sucker for an Aristotelian tragedy, especially since we see a proper tragedy so rarely. And, to be fair, this isn’t quite a “proper” tragedy. Paul wins in the end of Part 2, after all. But the essential feature of a tragic drama has occurred—the loss of Paul’s moral character. In surrendering to his man-made destiny, to becoming the messiah, Paul loses his integrity. He shifts from honestly insisting that he is not the messiah, to using his powers to manipulate the Fremen into accepting him as their leader. This remains the Fremen’s war, but as Paul sacrifices the Fremen half of his identity on the altar of victory, it becomes a Fremen war with a foreign warlord. House Atreides is triumphant—woe to the galaxy.

Villeneuve’s work in Part 2 is successful as interpretation because it wields the new medium’s techniques to shift the emphases of the original’s themes. Dune and Part 2 share themes and views of character. T.E. Lawrence’s “triumph” in Arabia was in the end a disaster for the Middle East culminating in over a century of continued violence (not that this is the Arabs’ fault—blame lies wholly with the British and the French). Our history’s inspirational overture runs as a consistent theme through both versions of the story of Paul and the Fremen. The director’s work isn’t an interpretation which shows how Dune “ought to have been written” or which subverts the known story from an egoistic desire to show off his own thoughts using a beloved narrative. It’s a serious and imaginative attempt to explore a timeless work of science fiction using a different camera angle.

---

Like this kind of stuff? Then maybe consider backing my Patreon? Backers are really helpful in covering expenses to keep the site running + The Cat fed. Backers get early access to my weekly articles, and get a monthly peek into my creative process too.

---

On Stilgar

The changes to Stilgar are not, perhaps, gargantuan, but they did sadden me. In the novel, Stilgar is early on a believer in Paul not as a messiah, but as a valuable fighter and cunning leader. Stilgar sees Paul not as a potential savior, but as a future rival. The Fremen chief sees this as praise, not hostility. The young succeed the old, and in time Stilgar anticipates that Paul will challenge him for leadership of Sietch Tabr.

As rumors spin that Paul is the messiah, Stilgar is not a zealot. He supports Paul and has faith in him, but in a human way. As an outsider, Paul has useful knowledge which may be what the Fremen need to defeat the Harkonnens. In this, Stilgar is pragmatic.

After drinking the Waters of Life and being acclaimed as the messiah, the story changes. Seeing Paul’s abilities firsthand Stilgar is converted to zealotry. This is one of my favorite moments in the novel because Paul loses a friend, without Stilgar being killed off. In becoming a zealot, a “yes man,” Stilgar is no longer who he was. Paul Atreides was a man who could be questioned and advised; the messiah is not. Yet Paul needs Stilgar’s questions and advice, and can no longer get it. Paul knows he’s just a man, but his friend does not.

---

On Chani

The film’s most substantial changes to Dune are in the character and actions of Chani. In the novel she’s Liet-Kynes’s daughter. She’s Paul’s moral core, his beloved and a valued advisor. Neither Chani nor Jessica are exactly “badasses” in the novel (though both can fight), but this does not diminish their impact on the story. Herbert, in my view, did a good job for his time in writing compelling women who aren’t just men with a wig.

Chani in Part 2 emphasizes her role as one of the Fedaykin warriors. She’s still Paul’s lover, but she doesn’t play a political or advisory role in the story (she also doesn’t appear to be Liet-Kynes’s daughter). Instead, she’s the film’s strongest advocate that the prophecies are fake. In one memorable scene, she goes so far as to say that the Fremen religion is how “they” control the Fremen. This skeptic view, as I mentioned, seems utterly alien to the Fremen of 1965. While the novel’s Chani is well aware that Paul is but a man, she also does not disparage her own culture.

As Paul steps down the path to become the messiah in Part 2, he and Chani drift apart. She sees it as a betrayal; the man she’d come to accept as one of the Fremen now turning to use the Fremen. Paul, in turn, sees no other choice for survival. Prophesy reveals that there is but a single, razor-thin, path forward for himself and the Fremen. When forced to choose between holy war and the loss of all he loves, Paul chooses war—and drives Chani away. (The film cleanses the original of jihad, using “holy war” as a replacement since Herbert’s religious blend of Abrahamic and Eastern faiths isn’t explained.)

Herbert’s novel ends, somewhat infamously, with Jessica commenting to Chani that though they may be called concubines, history shall remember them as wives. This comes after Paul agrees to marry the emperor’s daughter to seal their bargain, a ploy which Chani agreed may be necessary and which Paul actively loathed. In the film, however, Paul springs this by surprise on Chani, albeit with an apology. His true feelings shine through, despite choosing pragmatism over sentiment in an act of realpolitik. Chani, outraged, storms into the desert.

In character and role, Chani is quite different in Part 2 compared to the book. Unusually for me, I don’t hate the changes. I do think the novel’s version is a stronger character, but the film’s Chani is sympathetic. Taken on her own terms the character makes sense. She’s not the same character as in Dune, but the love between Chani and Paul is still captured well, and the tension between politics and emotion remains prominent. As with the Fremen, Villeneuve’s changes have avoided making Chani trivial. She’s not a tiresome “badass woman warrior” which just mimics chauvinistic tropes and labels them strength. Part 2‘s Chani is simply a different character.

Reflecting on the film and novel, I can’t help but wish that this Chani had been the one who converted to worship of Paul. Like Stilgar’s conversion in the novel, I feel this would have been a powerful, saddening moment for the audience and for Paul. That moment of conversion is impactful because it depicts a personal loss to the protagonist which is deeper than killing someone off. It’s a change in their internal character and beliefs, a complex person becoming less than who they were. That change, for me, would have been more shocking and more heartbreaking than Chani storming off into the desert. I think it would have made sense for the character, too. There’s uncontested proof that Paul has powers other men do not. Surely that is proof great enough to make skepticism melt away (save for those “in the know” like the Bene Gesserit).

It’s easy to deny the existence of magic, but harder to do so when it appears before you.

Let’s end with the first stanza from T.E. Lawrence’s epigraph to Seven Pillars of Wisdom. It’s a poem dedicated to “S.A.” While writing this review, I couldn’t help but imagine these words as those Paul might have written to Chani, as soldiers died and families starved, and the brave struggled to be free while furthering Paul’s imperial grasp.

I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands

and wrote my will across the sky in stars

To earn you Freedom, the seven pillared worthy house,

that your eyes might be shining for me

When we came.

T.E. Lawrence

---

Want to keep up-to-date on what Austin’s working on through Akhelas? Go ahead and sign up to the email list below. You’ll get a notification whenever a new post goes online. Interested in supporting his work? Back his Patreon for early articles, previews, behind-the-scenes data, and more.

You can also find Austin over on Facebook, and a bit more rarely on Twitter.