I first learned that fat people are evil from books. Reading illustrated children’s versions of scripture gave me my first clue. King Herod? Fat. Goliath? Fat. The Sanhedrin? Fat. All of them. (To say nothing of the grotesque King Noah—if you know who that is.) Oh sure, there’s the odd fat man who’s actually on the good guys’ side, like Friar Tuck. So I guess fat isn’t necessarily evil. It can also be a dismissive tool that helps us differentiate between a character in a supporting or comic relief role, and anyone we should really care about. But fat remains an effective way to paint a villain.

The Baron Vladimir Harkonnen of Frank Herbert’s Dune is a prime example. And just in case the fact that he’s so fat he needs anti-gravity suspensors to help him move around is insufficient indication of his evilness, he’s also an incestuous homosexual pedophile. With red hair.

This surface characterization is so effective in signaling to us that we shouldn’t like this character that it’s executed to the letter by both David Lynch and John Harrison in their respective movie versions. Granted, in today’s jaded world, such a character is invariably portrayed with a flair of camp. Even more so in Harrison’s 2000 miniseries than in Lynch’s 1984 film. Though even Herbert’s 1965 novel was well aware of this potential for silliness.

In any case, the Baron’s dastardliness does extend beyond his belly and his bed sheets. Together with the Emperor he has plotted the destruction of his archenemy, the Duke Leto Atreides. They’ll accomplish through the pretext of the Emperor ordering House Harkonnen to hand over the planetary fief of Arrakis to House Atreides. Though the Atreides will be suspicious, the chance to control Arrakis, sole source of the universe’s greatest natural resource, is not to be turned down. Then, just as the Atreides are settling in, the Harkonnens will return to crush them with the aid of disguised imperial troops.

Unfortunately for the Baron, the Duke Leto’s wife, Jessica, and son, Paul, escape the slaughter. They take refuge with the local people, the Fremen. These desert folk have always been disregarded by the Harkonnens. But their religious fundamentalism is a source of fury waiting to be tapped. Luckily for Jessica, she’s a Bene Gesserit Witch, trained for just such manipulations (considering most of the female characters, one wonders if Herbert’s marriage was less than blissful at the time of writing). Her and Paul play into their messianic mythology, and soon Paul finds himself leading them in a rebellion against the Harkonnens. Then comes the kicker: Paul actually turns out to be the messiah after all.

Paul, of course, is not fat. In any version. In fact, Lynch and Harrison are pretty much on the same page regarding the relative weights of all the various characters. Chalk some credit up to Herbert here, but it’s also an indication of just how stringent audience expectations are. The Atreides are all slim. With the exception of the Mentat advisor Thufir Hawat—but then he’s somewhat of a geek in any case. The Emperor and his court are sophisticated, distinguished. Obesity would hardly be appropriate (unless it’s a minor character like Count Fenring, but even then it must be carried well). No, it’s among the baser Harkonnens that the fat genes run rampant. The Baron. His nephew Rabban (a mirror image of his uncle, only stupid). The notable exception being the other nephew, Feyd. He can’t be fat. Someone has to face Paul in a final hand-to-hand fight to the death.

The women, needless to say, are trim without exception.

But even beyond general audience expectations regarding the body types of leading characters, Dune labors under the expectations created first by the monumental masterpiece of literature that is Herbert’s novel, and second by the highly problematic but indelible Lynch adaptation. Owing much to Herbert is a given. What’s surprising is how much Harrison’s version owes to Lynch’s. It is impossible to view Harrison’s naively if you’ve seen Lynch’s. And the miniseries suffers seen through that lens. The clearest example is Ian McNeice’s rendition of the Baron. Clearly derivative, he looks like Kenneth McMillan (Lynch’s Baron), laughs like him, talks like him, even floats to the ceiling when gloating like him. Don’t get me wrong, McNeice does well and there are many moments when he owns the character for himself. But the influence is unmistakable.

But to do a point by point comparison of the two versions would be unfair. So let’s look at Harrison’s miniseries on its own terms.


Acting

William Hurt gets top billing as the Duke Leto Atreides. Hurt has a distinct style, and he’s great in films like A.I. and Tuck Everlasting. The thought that he’d make a good philosophical Duke is understandable. Unfortunately, the role calls for more passion than Hurt musters, and he’s most convincing when drugged into a stupor.

Alec Newman plays Paul. Initially he’s shaky, but warms up to the role. As well as he renders his mystical mother-befuddling lines in the third act, it’s hard to forget his thick, unconvincing delivery in scenes like his first meeting with Princess Irulan, played adequately by Julie Cox.

Other than the already-discussed Baron (McNeice) that leaves the Lady Jessica, and Saskia Reeves’s performance is one of the better in the miniseries. Among the lesser roles, P. H. Moriarty is appropriately gruff but a little rusty in the joints to be playing Gurney Halleck. The hyped Matt Keeslar is serviceable as Feyd, and while his acting chops aren’t too impressive, his fighting skills are. Giancarlo Giannini is a too small, too primped Emperor. Uwe Ochsenknecht carries too much water fat to be believable as Stilgar (the one case where Harrison fails our body type expectations). Karel Dobry is actually quite good as Liet Kynes, though his hair looks like a bad Lionel Richie flashback. Lastly, Barbora Kodetova looks right as Chani, and she performs well too. Of course, playing a stoic desert warrior maiden is a limited challenge.


Story

If the acting of Harrison’s version pales next to the acting in Lynch’s, the narrative is at least cohesive. Which is important, since it was the abstruseness of the earlier film that brought it to ruin.

Changes to Herbert’s plot include a much larger role for Irulan (an approach Peter Jackson parallels in his Tolkien adaptations). She’s proactive, daring. Even impudent toward her father. And much more forward than becomes a lady of noble birth. These changes are carried off well for he most part. But I must say the story is no better for them. In fact, weaving Irulan into the dinner scene on Arrakis is a terrible mistake. She usurps a wonderful scene (a scene Lynch foolishly neglected). And the romantic tension between her and both Paul and Feyd is contrary to the ultimate purpose of her character.

Doctor Yueh, Thufir Hawat, and Piter DeVries are all shortchanged as characters. And Jamis is too young. Worse than that, Paul doesn’t have to choose to kill him. Instead it happens almost accidentally. Beyond that, there are quite a few nits to pick with the handling of Paul’s character. His knowledge of the voice during Mohiam’s interview is inexplicable. But Paul is mishandled to a much deeper degree. Rather than a sober, dutiful teenager we are given a rehashing of Luke Skywalker. His childish frustrations and impetuousness too strongly recall the whiny "But I was going in to Toschi Station to pick up some power converters!" I understand the desire to resonate with a young audience, but Paul Atreides was not a disgruntled teen.

But Harrison’s plot can at least be followed. This fact alone makes the miniseries the better recommendation for those who haven’t read the book. And the length of the miniseries allows for more effective exposition than the monologues Lynch adapted from Herbert. Though finesse is hardly how I’d describe Harrison’s exposition, which is usually provided by characters info-dumping in their dialogue. In one particularly significant way Harrison held true to the novel where Lynch chose otherwise. In the miniseries the “weirding way” is exactly what it should be: a mystical mental and martial discipline, characterized most prominently by total body control training that leads to exceptional speed and agility. Additionally, the more fully-fleshed relationship between the Baron and Feyd is good, as is the effort taken to portray Fremen society as a complete culture.


Style

Where Lynch’s version spiraled into narrative failure, it was partially redeemed by the magnificent visual style throughout the sets and costumes. Harrison’s version puts forth an admirable effort in this area, but falls well short of the mark Lynch set. Oriental fashions dominate the costumes, from kimonos to Samurai-like Harkonnen soldiers. It’s obvious much attention was given to this aspect of the movie. But the overall effect is less stylish than silly. Take, for instance, the plastic triangle attached to Feyd’s costume to frame his head. The camera’s style was also somewhat overdone. Again, this was most notable in Harkonnen scenes, when the angle taken was rarely natural, usually from some corner or even tilted diagonally. Perhaps the strongest stylistic point of the miniseries is the fighting. It far surpasses the 1984 film.

The special effects benefit from computer enhancement and animation. Yet, rarely do they surpass the work of sixteen years earlier (which is perhaps forgivable, since the miniseries cost less than half Lynch’s budget—around 77% less per minute of end product). Strong points are the ornithopters and the all-important worms. The painted fabric landscapes are good by yesteryears standards, but not worth the money that was saved by not having to film in desert locations. Granted, filming the miniseries in the Czech Republic did pay dividends, as seen by the great number of Czech names in the credits.

The trademark Fremen eyes, blue within blue, are achieved here by contact lenses glowing under ultraviolet light. The effect is inconsistent, as when a person looks ninety degrees away from the camera the glow is lost. But that’s alright since watching glowing eyes for over four hours is highly annoying. Why is it that Fremen eyes can’t just be blue? Why do people think they have to glow?


Recommendation

I’m hoping most of you just read a few of the opening fat jokes and then skipped down to this point. The intervening sections will be useful only to the hyper-interested.

I’m giving this miniseries three stars. Unlike Lynch’s film, it would actually make some sense to an audience unfamiliar with Herbert’s book. Kudos for telling a coherent story. But the acting is too often weak, and the style too often tacky. And even with the improvements in narrative structure, Dune remains rather inaccessible to a pedestrian audience. So to the everyman I wouldn’t recommend it. To the aficionado . . . but then you’ve probably seen it already anyway.

Myself? I liked it well enough, but not as much as Lynch’s version. Harrison’s 2003 Children of Dune miniseries was an improvement. But for the most part, after four and a half hours I only felt fatter. Does that make me a bad person?


-Panguitch


My review of David Lynch’s Dune
My review of Frank Herbert's original novel

Recommended: No