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MANNEQUINED If you’re a Frank Herbertphile, you might be able to get through the 1984 Dune just to see how director David Lynch reluctantly botched it by acquiescing to his producers’ impossible demand to squeeze the epic tale into slightly more than 2 hours. His first cut ran four hours, which he had hoped to whittle down to three, and so far neither has been released as a director’s cut as he’s still embarrassed by what he ended up with. Here’s what he said about the novel: “Dune is an adventure story on the surface, but it’s also a novel of emotional and physical textures, and I love textures. I also love strange ideas and Dune is filled with them—visions and prophecies, dreams and abstractions. I like going to weird worlds and Dune has a bunch of those, too. I was particularly excited because it’s all tied in with believable characters, not just mannequins you find in so many science fiction stories.” While Herbert’s devotees would concurr with Lynch’s description, many of those readers had concerns the novel’s chronology maze, coming with its own list of Terminology of the Imperium and cartographic chart, would send audiences into confusion. Maybe the four hour cut is less confusing, but the theatrical release would really screw things up in quite the oddest fashion. Forced to simplify, Lynch dumbs down the narrative of characters and action: four distant planets in the year 10,191 are basically warring over the spice Melange, a powerful and addictive substance prolonging life, permits mind-reading and reduces space travel time and, of course, used to control the masses by fascist evildoers who fear a pre-ordained messiah will stop their exploitation. In effect, Lynch strands us in the desert sand storms with blue-eyed warriors protecting what becomes their stash. Watching him work in his Mexican-built, Tequila-colored worlds of giant sand worms and inhospitable environments, we want to admire his interpretation of Herbert’s ecological consciousness but we’re put off; via the editing and added voice-overs, and the not very convincing special effects, all the adventures and “believable” characters except Baron Harkonnen are unintendedly mannequined to death. There are bits to enjoy on the way to the funeral: in its eclectic mishmash of Aztec and Mayan textural essences by production designer Anthony Masters, there’s a throne room with gold and beige honeycombs and women walking around in formal mourning gowns with long trains; a stairwell with moldings looking like repurposed tires leading to a pyramid’s inner sanctum and another staircase with circular decorations suggesting bowling balls; an obscenely giant mouth formed from a rounded metal blimp looking ready to perform fellatio in a cavernous erector set; lap-sized drums as upside down pyramids; lots of woodwork no planet we see provides trees for; and, as a second oral fixation, Carlo Rambaldi’s lewd Third Stage Guild Navigator—its nearly heart-shaped kisser a valvating vagina dispensing pink-red smoke—encased in a steel & glass locomotive mausoleum. We don’t get to see the creep descend from his awe-inducing space ship; other transports look like flying crosses; and the hero’s has Hollywood bedboard leather upholstery on its interior walls. (All of these are not present in the Dune remake, which is one long monotonic trailer.) Excepting the stodgy, prissy nerd Lyle MacLachlan, whose face has the freshly scrubbed look you get after an appointment at Georgette Klinger’s, the cast selections are unobjectionable and no one is having a more rip-roaring good time than Kenneth McMillan as the bulbously toxic pederast Baron, who isn’t chewing as much as spitting on the scenery. (The movie’s high point, he’s smitten with muscularly anorexic Sting, whose beacon eyes signal a kinky, kicky madness.) Freddie Jones’s unmanicured Brezhnevian brows, Siân Phillips’ bald head, Brad Dourif’s chronic cuckoonestitis and Patrick Stewart’s inexplicably sexy temples become valued distractions. Freddie Francis’s cinematography manages to duplicate Herbert’s galactic Dark Age ambiance. The full soundtrack, including music by Toto and sound effects, has a lulling hum. When the worms open their cavities, we’re reminded of the living eternal pain machine Jabba the Hut plans to throw Luke, Hans and Princess Leia into. Original release in TODD AO. The further dumbed-down TV edition runs 190 minutes, with the handy Allen Smithee listed as director and Judas Booth credited with the screenplay. Steelcase and Arrow Video have released 4K Ultra HD versions of the original with plenty of extras. Text COPYRIGHT © 2007 RALPH BENNER (Revised 9/2021) All Rights Reserved.
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