Journey to Dune (2021)
Jade and Alex then attempt to integrate a night of dance and ecstacy with the ideals of cinema…
Alex
When our doses of molly took last night’s festivities from gentle warmth to a raging river of love and dynamism equaled only by the year’s strongest storm shouting against the roof, I knew that stability could only be found in a voluntary confrontation with this existential changing. We had to become the Fremen riding the sandworm, embracing Chaos herself, at once surrendering and gaining mastery.
The sandworm is within Paul, simultaneously calling him across the galaxy to a new planet, and arising from inside as a monstrously powerful new Cosmic-Paul. Mastering this terrifying unknown by surrendering to it is, to my mind, the proper core of this movie. Dune should have started with the first epigram, “dreams are messages from the deep,” then exploding into the blank screen comes a shot of a Fremen riding a sandworm, which is then revealed to be a dream that Paul is having: Jessica is shaking him awake; it’s time to undergo the trial of the pain-box. His triumph over the illusion of the pain-box then sets the tone of the hero’s journey he undergoes for the next two hours. Conquering the pain-box is why he is ultimately able to conquer the worm.
Jade
In spite of bad acting and clumsy cuts, the overarching narrative of Dune was shining through like a great eternal statue defiled by a city’s street debris. The debris of modern colloquialisms and Hollywood personalities, that if only I could wash off like some gash of spray paint, I would see with even greater clarity the profound shapes of stone underneath. That immovable Ozymandias insisting on his kingdom and destiny. Where are we, exactly? Who is it that inhabits this place?
Alex
At the party, the sandworm, or chaotic Mother Nature embodied, came in the form of the storm overhead, and the molly churning inside of us, and the huge music booming upwards from the basement. When talking in the kitchen, the living energy of the dance beneath could be felt shaking our feet. Yet we were in both places at once: we were the direct living experience of the dance, which infused the kitchen conversations with truth, urgency and vulnerability. Paul’s arc should be portrayed as two experiences overlaid: dreams of the sandworm beneath, and navigating the political life-or-death turmoil of Dukedom above. By the time he can face the sandworm with nobility and calm, he can assume Dukedom. Dune communicated a version of this intellectually, but an intimate experience of immersion was desired, and missing. It’s not that I didn’t know where I was in the plot, but that I didn’t really care about any particular part of it.
Jade
Last night I felt like the embodiment of many lifetimes. I was laying out maps of possible futures, labored over lovingly; I was the mind at the center of a vast myth.
A year in the past, I arrived at a similar party at the same house, after a long week of struggling with feeling not embedded in any particular story. A general sensation of nowhereness, landlessness, thrownness was pulling me down, and down, and down.
At that past party I saw the lives of the people around me with beautiful clarity of vision. Watching Carolina and her mother swaying twin-like together, I understood who they were and what they were doing. I was overcome with a love for motherhood and lineage. I saw multiple lifetimes embodied; I saw the makings of a myth. And yet, the next day I found myself spat back into my not-anywhere-particular, with-no-one-specific experience of life.
Since February 2021, I have been aiming bold intentionality towards the creation of specific and particular experiences for myself. Where am I, exactly? Who am I, specifically? That work, even when subconscious, has been weaving a glittering web all around me. I saw it suddenly revealed last night, there in the kitchen. I had been picking up certain threads, weaving them together, creating answers to those questions. In so doing, I had begun to weave a specific tale of my place and myself. Seeing that half-made project laid before me in full display, I began to see clearly where things were going.
I understood even more fully the power of the mother force, and of creating the world you want to see. Carolina, the mother herself and the hostess of both parties past and present, had woven this story for me to experience! I felt my own call to create such experiences. I could only compare this present to that past because of the recurrence and return Carolina created for me. The stability of such an experience, of knowing you can count on people to remain and to grow, gave me a profound sense of being able to see possible futures, to look at possible maps, and to select where we would head. I found myself saying things I was not necessarily supposed to know, but did. I was a fledgling Bene Gesserit, weaving a future with enlightened precision. How is this performance perceived, I wonder? Is it jarring to suddenly articulate everything? Is it too much exposition?
Alex
Would certain truths ever come to pass physically, if you never give voice to your inner perception of them?
In Heretics of Dune, a new student of the Bene Gesserit witches is advised before confronting the head of their order: “Speak only from the deepest truth that you can sense.” The molly last night was calling this principle out of me; almost every person I talked to inspired me to articulate the most central, most honest part of my relationship with that person. A few distinctly Bene Gesserit traits resulted: My tone of voice was more calmly confident, more affirmative and stable than I was used to. A great sense of purpose was urging me from within, to illuminate the next most true thing, then the next most true thing, in a display of human beauty I discovered the moment I put words to it. My eye contact with whoever I was talking to was clear, calm, and steady. Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam would’ve been proud.
I don’t think Dune director Denis Villeneuve has often been in touch with the core of existence. Perhaps this thought results from there being three screenwriters on this film, where there should be only one. What I mean to say is, the effect of the words in the film were not of directing the audience towards the central spirit of the desert, they were not used to deepen the spell arising from within Paul to transform his entire world. It’s as if the screenwriters don’t even suspect the spell-casting power of words. If they did, they would’ve used far less of them.
Jade
I’m now part of the dancing below, surrounded by people who I love. Throughout the night, we have been apologizing to each other. It has the same magic-shrinking effect of Dune’s script. “Sorry, I cut you off!”, “Sorry, am I being too much?”, “Sorry, sorry!” when we pass in the hall. Even this morning afterward, I am second guessing my Enlightened Mother self, wondering if I should have said the things that I said. “I hope that was okay!” the voice of a small Jade working in the customer service department at Lulu’s whispers in my ear through a telephone headset. You hope that was okay? Let me assure you, my shy friend of years past, few things are better.
“You’re on molly, Jade! Be! Be! Be!”
Last night I was at the center of something. Upstairs in the kitchen, I had this glowing sensation of being caught in the very center of a vast web I had been weaving, shared histories and conversations were binding together to create a stable structure. In the dance below, I suddenly looked around myself and said “This is a beautiful house,” to whoever was listening. Whoever-Was-Listening nodded, profoundly. What I meant, really, was that it was a beautiful stage upon which we were performing the tale of a great epic of interweaving lives, the statement of which is Destiny. Habitual remarks of apology make the only flaws in such a performance.
For Paul, the desert planet Arrakis is that beautiful stage of destiny he is arrhythmically dancing his way deeper and deeper into. Such an experience should be expanded into, felt out. These were my favorite moments of the movie: exploring that new world. I wanted to linger in the desert scenes, watch the wind blowing the sand. I wanted to push the lenses of the Duke’s binoculars out of view and take it all in with my own eyes. Let me see the strange city rising out of the sea of desert like a great monolith and let me feel, with the bold simplicity of an unbroken gaze, the depth of the story about to unfold upon it.
Alex
If we knew that God was in the room, and that the last thing such a force needs is our apologetics, we’d get more value from talking and dancing with each other. It’s the difference between abasing yourself in order to connect, or stepping forthrightly up to someone you love and saying out loud, with words or dance, “I want to connect with you!” It’s the worldview of “I’m so small, I’ll try to be even smaller, I am unworthy,” contrasted against the worldview of “I’m a child of the Great Divine! Holy cow, so are you!” I project this worldview of apologetics onto Villeneuve’s editing choices. With one cut he’ll show me the most mind blowing spaceship I’ve never even imagined, or the most powerfully satanic Baron Harkonnen imagery, only to treat an adjacent moment of packing up some boxes with the same amount of weight, music, and drama. The effect is of never having time to really soak in a moment, beautiful or disturbing. I think he’s afraid that if you look too closely, you’ll be able to see how much fun he’s having. He feels apologetic for making these images so powerful. “Quick, quick, stuff as many huge Dune moments in as possible before they come crash my party!” This is how I suspect Dune’s completely avoidable mistakes were made.
Jade
Worst of all in terms of dialogue, is Hollywood's current custom to use pithy one liners to lighten the mood. I for one am tired of trying to lighten the mood! Let me feel the gravity of this story we have found ourselves in. Let me feel its full weight, without apology. We are deep in the middle of a very intense story! When I look up at an old friend in the kitchen of the party, I tell him a secret about the future and he looks at me and nods, profoundly. This was one moment I did not apologize for: Speaking truths like that is the only way to carry ourselves into the future. In epic stories like the Iliad, humor is present too, but it is woven into the story; it does not break the spell. Villenueve uses humor in the film much the same way someone at a party might use self-deprecating humor to deflect the overwhelming energy they are experiencing.
Alex
Mistakes were made in Dune by taking on too many objectives. The necessary move here in adaptation of Dune is to remove everything except the spiritual core: For this first half of the first book, the core is the journey of Paul from a safe, verdant home to a harsh, unforgiving wilderness, then to confront the embodiment of Mother Nature herself in the form of the sandworm. Everything must be organized to this core. Then, you can dole out the gravitas of individual scenes in a steadily escalating intensity that peaks with the sandworm confrontation. This film lacked such a focus, and the result was that every other scene, for two and a half hours, was treated with the bombastic gravitas of a climax. When everything is loud and huge, nothing in particular is able to stand out.
With so many huge and beautiful images, what was basically felt missing was the magic itself, the mystery itself. Just as you and I would only have gotten half of the party’s message, if we’d stayed upstairs talking without ever descending to the dance hall beneath, Dune held its portrayal to surface trivialities without ever descending to the basic experience: an audience glimpsing a world that is utterly alien, inscrutable, yet spiritually resonant with the core of all our lives. Cut out half the exposition. Slow down the cuts. Allow us to deal with these challenging experiences on our own terms, without the constant hand-holding of exposition.
Jade
There is something useful about exposition though. In the past, a kitchen conversation was the last thing I ever wanted to be a part of. “I’m bored!!!!” was the general sensation. Throw me right into the heart of the thing! Turn up the music! Now, in light of last night's events, I see the power of the interplay between exposition and “the magic itself”. Exposition sets the stage for the magic. It contains and affirms it. When handled correctly, exposition opens up a greater context. Exposition should work as casting a spell; it should have the same effect that molly has I suppose.
Cue the exposition scene of the party: our moment in the kitchen was so good because everything you and I have been up to was given voice. It was a welcome opportunity to articulate to each other and to those around us where exactly we’re at in our narrative. At that party I saw that exposition is good when the story is good. If exposition is necessary in a film like Dune, perhaps it should be embraced even more completely. Give me simply a Bene Gesserit in a dark room telling me exactly what has happened so far, that and nothing more. Maybe 15 minutes of just that!
The kitchen moment was the middle of a larger story. This is when exposition feels profoundly gratifying. In Homer, we are thrown into the story right at the middle, “in medias res”, gripped by that core image around which the whole story revolves, and everything that comes after opens doors in both directions, opening up both past and future, describing how we got there and where we’re headed. In the kitchen, we articulated the dance we’ve all been doing these past months. Then exposition is most welcome and full.
Alex
Of course, exposition can deepen the spell. But Villeneuve was obviously out of touch with the nature of his spell. A specific scene leaps to mind: Duke Leto and Gurney Halleck look out over their new city. The dialogue serves to highlight which buildings to prioritize in defense, then provides a joke about how to shower in the desert. This is entirely wasted speech. The city has fallen in thirty more minutes, with zero reference to those prioritized buildings, and the Duke dies soon after. Proper dialogue then, would express Leto’s death awareness, would point us back to the core of the film: there are world-ending events that come up from within, to end what we were, to merge us with all of existence.
Jade
Yes, yes! The duke could have just said: “Now we will harness desert power.”
The promise of films, in their ideal form, is a more visceral experience. It’s disturbing and shocking then, when watching a film only makes you think, “Wow, this book must be really amazing, I can’t wait to finish this movie so I can go read it.” You write that “Everything must be organized to this core.” It occurs to me that Villenueve’s film is not organized to its own core; rather it feels like a prostate sprawl in worship to a much greater thing it cannot possibly contain. This should feel like a triumph for me; ah ha! Proof that literature still has its place in our modern world, that it cannot completely go out of style. Yet the beauty of this film, the sprawling majesty of the desert churning from within as the leviathan passes below, cries out to be given form, and so it’s necessary that such a film exists. Tragically, Villeneuve shows us what we want by depriving us of it.
Alex
Films like Dune make me think it’s virtually impossible to adapt a book to film. The change of medium necessitates the creation of a new story, if the animating spirit of the book is to be expressed at all. Mad Max: Fury Road, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind, these are movies that expressed themes first articulated in Frank Herbert’s Dune.
Jade
Villeneuve has not learned the lesson that Paul is supposed to have learned in the scene where he yields to the desert storm. Villeneuve does not seem to know when to take his hands off the reins and surrender to the spirit of the thing. If he had, we would experience a much fuller scene of what is actually happening, uninterrupted by visitations of voices of other characters trying to explain. Instead, we would just get visceral images of the arrhythmic dance of the ornithopter in the storm’s center.
Only a deep stability allows for a total release, allows for letting go and engaging the dance of life; trust in one’s self creates the opportunity to get lost in something. This was our experience at the party: we know where we are and who we are; we can now let go. The dancing that happens down below is that full embrace of Chaos herself. The magic of the anima, achieved by surrender to other forces, requires this deep inner trust.