Underwhelming.

It feels cramped and rushed despite having enough horizontal space for all story points between A and Z. And the vertical? The underneath? The heart, which should not lead? It bumps like a buried thumper if even heard at all. Denis Villeneuve, ensuring that every single shot weighs at least 100 pounds, uses his imagery as a mortar and pestle to grind the emotional life of the story into a fine dust that quickly takes flight off to places unknown. 

Part of what I love about Dune is that it's a story about the dangers of humans’ mushrooming obsession with subjugating nature in all forms. You wouldn't know that from these two films. Villeneuve soft-pedals everything outside of the political scheming that is ittedly a core element of the novel, and in doing so, he reduces that central element to a stick-figure mockup stunningly backlit by perpetually setting suns, courtesy of Greig Fraser. Once again, we are not allowed beneath the surface of the characters. With Villeneuve practically ignoring the ecological side of things, essential to communicating why this story is and should be epic while also helping it create its own unique identity, he reduces the emotional marrow and renders the tale dangerously anemic. It makes you try to draw more sustenance from the omnipresent, heavy spectacle, which, here as before, fails to wow as much as it nearly oppresses. 

It doesn't earn the right to be ponderous. It doesn't focus itself enough on any one thing for you to get a complete sense of perspective. Most importantly, it leaves behind several crucial elements of the story that allow it to transcend. Dune has been a legitimate science fiction classic for decades. It has been aimed toward the big screen by legions of tremendous artists for about as long. It made it once before with a giant SPLAT. But it was a transporting, otherworldly SPLAT. This time, Denis Villeneuve meticulously chisels his unimaginative, anti-religion space opera relief mural into smooth, sun-baked stone, remaining clear enough for you to connect the dots but fostering little overall involvement. Having my pupils dilated by shots of massive asshole-worms or flattening me with seat-shaking shouts of The Voice is a poor substitute for a genuine heart. 

And it has to be said that a significant part of where Villeneuve goofs is in his casting of the two leads. Timothée Chalamet is OK but far from the ideal Paul Atreides. There's an unshakable mopiness to him that doesn't fade as the Kwisatz Haderach emerges. While he possesses a decent amount of gravitas at times, he fails to let us inside Paul's journey. He becomes more of a cipher as the film progresses. Toward the end of the movie, there is a particular scene where Muad'Dib shouts, standing in shadow—an eerie display of anger—only to have Chalamet's underwear model face emerge from the darkness. Tension deflates like rocky farts from a whoopee cushion.

Zendaya was a mistake. She is a chief progenitor of what my friend called "the stale air of the now" that is quizzically and unfortunately present in both parts. She feels too earthbound, too modern—too 2023. For me, Chani embodied the ethereal beauty of the story of Dune and its namesake world, so staring into her barely blue eyes and being reminded of social media is a buzzkill. She tries; she's certainly not phoning it in but needs to gain skill. Range. And she is far too ordinary to be head-turning to Muad’Dib.

Am I on board for Dune Messiah? I feel there are no surprises left. Figures that the version of Dune finally afforded a wide enough berth is the one sapped of vitality.