Visually spectacular but woefully tedious, portentous, pretentious, pompous movie. A reminder to be wary every time a director says that it's been a lifelong dream to bring a particular project to the screen. The result is likely to be over-reverence, as we have here. The real villain is the source material, which was already old-hat in the 1960s and now feels painfully over-familiar. Its sticky religiosity separates it from its predecessors such as Asimov's 'Foundation' trilogy. However much George Lucas may have taken from Frank Herbert, by creating the character of Hans Solo he saved the Star Wars franchise from being humor-free. There isn't a smile to be had from DUNE. Not even an unintentional one.
As in all such epics, the actors who don't have to pretend to be real come off best. Fine talents such as Mr Chalamet and Mr Isaac, whose characters have 'journeys', do their best but inevitably flounder because of the drivel they have to speak. Simpler, two-dimensional figures, however, can give a well-cast performer something to chew on, and this proves to be the case with Stellan Skarsgård, barely recognisable as the villain, and Jason Momoa, who is touching as a valiant and loyal soldier.
Female characters rarely prosper in this latter-day Cecil B. De Mille style, so well done Rebecca Ferguson and Sharon Duncan-Brewster, who find ways to give the impression there might be life in the corpse of the genre.
I was going to say that there's too much noise and too much music. But on reflection I understand that they drown out a good deal of portentous, pointless dialogue.
Kudos to DOP Greig Fraser, production designer Patrice Vermette and their respective teams, who obviously worked tirelessly on creating all the worlds on display. But I'll never get back the two and a half hours I wasted on this nonsense. I resent it.
And, heaven help me, it's only Part One!
As in all such epics, the actors who don't have to pretend to be real come off best. Fine talents such as Mr Chalamet and Mr Isaac, whose characters have 'journeys', do their best but inevitably flounder because of the drivel they have to speak. Simpler, two-dimensional figures, however, can give a well-cast performer something to chew on, and this proves to be the case with Stellan Skarsgård, barely recognisable as the villain, and Jason Momoa, who is touching as a valiant and loyal soldier.
Female characters rarely prosper in this latter-day Cecil B. De Mille style, so well done Rebecca Ferguson and Sharon Duncan-Brewster, who find ways to give the impression there might be life in the corpse of the genre.
I was going to say that there's too much noise and too much music. But on reflection I understand that they drown out a good deal of portentous, pointless dialogue.
Kudos to DOP Greig Fraser, production designer Patrice Vermette and their respective teams, who obviously worked tirelessly on creating all the worlds on display. But I'll never get back the two and a half hours I wasted on this nonsense. I resent it.
And, heaven help me, it's only Part One!