Dune Part II: a Film, a Saga, and the Future in our Past

Frank Herbert’s Dune saga is often perceived as the single most influential science fiction novel released in the 20th century. His legacy parallels another, equally significant, literary mastermind: J.R.R. Tolkien. Tolkien resurrected the fantasy genre with his magnum opus, The Lord of the Rings (1954-55), and proved that nuanced storytelling, romantic prose, and thematically rich narratives were not reserved for realistic fiction. Tolkien’s trilogy is today inseparable from our cultural landscape, praised by scholars, intellectuals and the average commoner for its intricate worldbuilding and exhilarating narrative. Nearly fifty years after its release, Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens miraculously created a cinematic adaptation (2001-2003) whose impact on cinema was as revolutionary as the original three novels.

Tolkien revolutionised the fantasy genre and placed it in our collective consciousness. Similarly, Herbert took the absurd, abstract, and rather corny genre of science-fiction, and proved it also had infinite narrative and thematic potential. There is, however, one key difference between Herbert and Tolkien: their level of fame.

Herbert’s work has rather unluckily evaded the minds of the masses. Instead, most people worship the manifold stories whose main inspiration is Dune. Star Wars (1977) features a galactic empire, protagonists on desert planets, and a massive space worm. A Song of Ice and Fire (1996-present) is a political drama with houses vying for power, not entirely different from the eternal rivalries between House Atreides and House Harkonnen. These are but two of the many pop-cultural juggernauts mirroring Herbert’s Dune. And as with The Lord of the Rings, Dune was long deemed too complex to ever be filmed. A couple of attempts have been made with mixed, often rather low reception. It is here our journey begins — the first act of appreciation.

Part I: Bringing the Imagined to Life

In 1984, David Lynch made a less-than-satisfactory attempt to adapt Dune, which, according to the director himself, is a film best left in the proverbial desert. Three decades later, Denis Villeneuve was entrusted with the monumental task of adapting the story for the big screen. Villeneuve’s repertoire preceding Dune: Part One (2021) proved the Canadian filmmaker might succeed where Lynch failed. Arrival (2016) and Blade Runner 2049 (2017) are exceptional science fiction films, each one an adaptation of a respected novel (Story of Your Life (1998) by Ted Chiang; Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968) by Philip K. Dick). Arrival had a thought-provoking and imaginative take on the alien invasion story; Blade Runner 2049 was a worthy successor to Ridley Scott’s cult classic Blade Runner (1982), building on its themes and delving deeper into its philosophical dilemmas.

With each adaptation, Villeneuve demonstrated cinematic prowess and, more importantly, the ability to translate renowned literature into moving images. This is especially true Dune: Part One and Part Two. Villeneuve’s passion for the novel is ever-present. The aesthetic is sleek, defined and realistic. Machines, vehicles, and settings on screen look so realistic they could almost fool you into believing the production team actually built Herbert’s imagined inventions. Furthermore, Villeneuve does not try to hide dissatisfactory visual effects behind quick, rigid cuts or various other common techniques. Instead, as if we were endowed with prescient abilities like our protagonist Paul, we see everything.

Herbert purposefully minimised detailed descriptions to activate his readers’ imaginations. Ornithopters, for example, are depicted as both bird-like and insect-like.

“the [. . .] ‘thopter dived out of the night onto them, stooping like a giant hawk above the desert with wind screaming through its wings.”

(Dune, Chapter 22)

“The captured ‘thopter took off with a lurching flap of wings, angled upward to the south in a steep, wing-tucked climb.”

(Dune, Chapter 24)

“Wings snicked in to beetle stubs.”

(Dune, Chapter 25)

“[a] ring of drone ornithopters came over a lifting of dunes like a swarm of insects following its queen.”

(Dune, Chapter 43)

“ORNITHOPTER (commonly: ‘thopter): any aircraft capable of sustained wing-beat flight in the manner of birds.”

(Dune, Terminology of the Imperium)

Villeneuve’s ornithopters resemble dragonflies, and the spice harvesters crawl atop the dunes like gargantuan bugs. The insect aesthetic is prevalent and has broader thematic implications. On Arrakis, humans are mere insects compared to the mighty sandworms. But similarly to insects on planet Earth, human activity on Arrakis impacts the environment immensely; their role cannot and must not be ignored.

Dune: Part Two is undeniably a masterclass in technical filmmaking. Another praiseworthy aspect is the cinematography, which also builds theme and character. In the very first scene, Arrakis is painted in a violent and ferocious deep orange. As we follow Paul and the Fremen, the aggressive orange gives way to lighter hues of white and beige. Thus, you are exposed to the inhuman heat, the coarse sands, and the harsh, inhospitable climate. When we later traverse the galaxy to Giedi Prime, the planet of House Harkonnen, all colours vanish. Although Villeneuve and cinematographer Greig Fraser’s stylistic choice opposes the rather flamboyant descriptions in the novel, it does, however, reflect House Harkonnen perfectly; a planet devoid of colour for a house devoid of humanity. The film was sadly deprived of the Oscar for Best Achievement in Cinematography, but did at least win in the categories Best Sound and Best Achievement in Visual Effects. I could continue praising the technical aspects of the film, but plenty more qualified people have already published excellent essays and analyses on these topics. Instead, let us discuss the less objective elements: theme, characterisation, and representation. Before that, however, we must first leap into the past and return to Herbert’s novel.

Part II: What is Dune?

Dune (1965) is a novel that must be read to be appreciated. If a mildly fragmented analysis inspires interest in the novels, it is, however, worth an attempt. Dune is an epic, poetic and hallucinatory space opera, that is infinitely complex, multi-layered and eerily relevant. The narrative roller-coaster is equally exhilarating and thought-provoking, with a poignant message. Superficial interpretations claim Dune is a ‘white-saviour’ story, featuring a divine coloniser descending from heaven to liberate the oppressed. This is, however, precisely what Herbert critiqued. In an interview at UCLA in 1985, he famously said:

“I wrote the Dune series, because I had this idea, that charismatic leaders ought to come with a warning label on their forehead: may be dangerous to your health.”

One of the novel’s most emblematic quotes comes near its midpoint. Planetary ecologist Liet Kynes meanders through the desert whilst slowly succumbing to its heat. During his final moments, Liet hears his father, Pardot Kynes, speak to him, saying the following:

“No more terrible disaster could befall your people than for them to fall into the hands of a Hero.” (Dune, Chapter 30)

This is, however, precisely what transpires. Paul Muad’Dib Atreides climbs the Fremen hierarchy and becomes their supreme, godlike patriarch. The devout are unflagging in their worship. They interpret Paul’s every action according to the prophecy of Lisan al-Gaib, “The Voice from the Outer World,” said to lead them to paradise. Paul transforms into the messianic figure of legend, and when the novel reaches its triumphant climax, Paul has ended House Harkonnen — the former ruthless proprietors of Arrakis — and removed Emperor Shaddam IV from power. Thus, Paul claims the throne and becomes the de facto emperor of the known universe.

The Lisan al-Gaib myth Paul exploited to reach divinity was, interestingly but unsurprisingly, human-made. It was a myth deliberately planted by the Bene Gesserit Sisterhood to function as an emergency plan if any member happened to get stranded on Arrakis. What began as a protective shield grew and flourished like a rainforest until the Fremen had incorporated this myth into their collective consciousness. Consequently, Paul’s ascension rested on a pillar of false promises, designed to gain and maintain control whilst preying on the Fremen’s misguided piety. They eventually transform from oppressed survivors to the messiah’s unyielding soldiers. What followed was a holy war, the “jihad”, as Herbert named it, that spread death and destruction across the entire universe, resulting in trillions dead and unparalleled planetary decimation.

The full ramifications of Paul’s conquest are explored in the sequel novel Dune: Messiah (1969), but the seeds of destruction were planted in its predecessor. Dune is not a white-saviour story, but the warning label Frank wanted to place on charismatic leaders.

Continuing on the same cohesive thread, analysts have argued the Dune saga is yet another entry into the gender-discriminating hall of fiction, feeding the already bloated beast of female oppression. The dukes, lords and emperor(s), i.e. the people with authority by imperial decree, are men. Women, however, exist in the periphery, or as beautiful decor next to their stately husbands. Although I have no degree in gender studies, I would argue that such a proclamation is parochial. The truth is unearthed once you untangle the intricate web that constructs Dune’s politics. “Behind every great man, there is a woman,” and in Dune, we have the Bene Gesserit.

The Bene Gesserit is, as depicted in the entire Dune saga, an all-female organisation comprised of scientists, spies, theologians, and nuns. For millennia, they have conducted genetic experimentation, religious manipulation, and controlled intergalactic politics behind a veil of secrecy and mysticism. Their ultimate purpose was to bring forth the Kwisatz Haderach — a being able to unlock the genetic memories of both their female and male ancestors — and ensure humanity’s survival. They are puppeteers who rule the rulers from the shadows. History will remember the ‘great men’, but it was the Bene Gesserit who paved their roads. Whether the Sisterhood’s ambitions are ethical and truly altruistic is debatable. It is still an interesting creative decision by Herbert to construct a universe ruled by shadowy female figures with discipline, puissance and mysterious abilities. This is particularly poignant when considering the normative gender roles of the 1960s, which expected women to dedicate their lives to their husbands and children.

Herbert’s work is not only a subtle gender-defying narrative, but also an ecocritical representation of human activity on Earth. The desert planet Arrakis is itself a character, with a rich and captivating history. In the past, Arrakis was a flourishing, diverse planet sprawling with life, not the barren, sere wasteland rife with sandworms. These gargantuan spice-creating desert worms were not native to Arrakis, but when their progenitor – a small species known as sandtrout – was brought to the planet, they triggered its metamorphosis (although it is not explicitly stated by Herbert, it is fair to assume the sandtrout were planted by humans). As the sandtrout grew, multiplied and spread, it “encysted the available water” (Children of Dune, Chapter 6) and made Arrakis into the desert planet depicted in the novel.

Restoring the planet to its former green glory is Liet Kynes’s main ambition. During his final moments in the desert, the hallucination of his father claims the following:

“Men and their works have been a disease on the surface of their planets before now,” his father said. “Nature tends to compensate for disease, to remove or encapsulate them, to incorporate them into the system in her own way.” (Dune, chapter 30)

When the novel begins, House Harkonnen and, subsequently, House Atreides, have the planetary fiefdom of Arrakis. They are thus, by imperial decree, entitled to harvest the geriatric spice melange. Spice is the single most valuable resource in the galaxy, and as the Baron said in Lynch’s 1984 adaptation:

“He who controls the spice controls the universe.”

Arrakis is the spice-producing planet and has been exploited mercilessly for centuries by the Great Houses of the Landsraad, without consideration for the life it hosts. The rich get richer whilst the planet deteriorates. This is of little value to the money-hungry Houses, who reap the rewards. As long as the spice flows, the planet may suffer. Pardot’s claim is evidently accurate. Humans are parasites on Arrakis. The sandworms, although chaotic and destructive and, as revealed, not native, act as the planet’s immune system, trying to eradicate the infectious vermin contaminating their home.

It should come as no surprise that Herbert was an early environmentalist, and that Dune was a significant piece of literature in the green movement of the 60s and 70s. On Earth Day 1970, Herbert was quoted, saying:

“I refuse to be put in the position of telling my grandchildren, ‘Sorry, there’s no more world for you. We used it up.’”

This was nearly sixty years ago. Unfortunately, with every passing year, with every delayed plan, with every disappointing climate summit, planet Earth seems to be drifting towards an Arrakean metamorphosis. Herbert’s prescient visions of an environmental disaster seem like an inevitability. The realisation is quite depressing. Temperatures are rising, irregular weather patterns increase in frequency, the ecological holocaust accelerates, and soon, our planet may resemble the arid and sere planet envisioned by Herbert half a century ago. Much discussion may be held surrounding this annoyingly relevant theme, but that is not the purpose of my essay. It is, however, important to keep in mind when analysing both the novels and the films.

Finally, before we return to Villeneuve’s adaptation, we should direct attention to a closely related theme: colonialism. The native Fremen work in synergy with the planet, having harnessed its potential and gained much strength. Their colonisers are, contrarily, conducting holistic oppression; the planet and its populations are systematically labelled as resources, rightfully exploited without moral consideration. Centuries of oppression have, however, honed the Fremen and shaped them into the universe’s most ferocious warriors.

often described as demonic fighters. Secondly, they have been conditioned to believe in a coloniser narrative planted by the colonisers themselves. The “Lisan al Gaib,” the Voice From the Outer World,” is an off-world prophet or messiah destined to liberate the Fremen. Thus, as the Fremen are devout, they await foreign salvation instead of actively pursuing it themselves. This is but a brief abbreviation of the many relevant themes presented in Dune. To avoid this essay becoming longer than a sandworm, we should now return to Villeneuve’s adaptation.

Again, the poor, the mom comtronitprs. Siffer- necaise tje rich are omdiögemt. Opiölemt amd imcomsoderate; evem the ,pst årpfotanöe åöamet deserves mpme pf pir resåect neceaise the planet os a product. Maeria, oir property.

His mentality has only become more relevant as the years have passed, and as of now,

Part Three: 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? Well, that is what we are here to discuss.

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 eagre 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 congiscant 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-1900s, 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 humanitary 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.