He has constructed an entire world for us here, thick with myth and mystery, stripped of narrative signposts or even much in the way of handy exposition. The drama is played out with relish by an ensemble cast (Rebecca Ferguson, Charlotte Rampling, Jason Momoa) and Villeneuve is confident enough to let the temperature slowly build before the big operatic set-pieces eventually break cover. In the meantime: good heavens, what a film. “This is only the beginning,” he is assured – and one dearly hopes this is true. The worms will swallow you whole if given half a chance, and poor Paul’s in a hole, wondering what he will do next. The sand blows and drifts like a living thing. Paul’s only chance is to embrace his disenchantment and carve out a new path, one that leads into the hills. Josh Brolin’s weapons master can’t save him, while Stellan Skarsgard’s bloated, floating baron is plotting a bloody revenge. “I’ve been set up to fail,” says the Duke when spice production has stalled and he realises how malign the forces behind him really are. Should this crash and burn at the box office, his story looks likely to remain incomplete. The Dune we have here covers only the first half of the book. Even Villeneuve finds himself unable to celebrate a victory just yet.
David Lynch’s 1984 version was widely dismissed as a dud, while a TV miniseries that aired in 2000 appears to have since turned to dust. Alejandro Jodorowsky tried and failed to bring it to the screen. But the desert world of Dune has a knack for destroying those who come to tame it, just as the novel itself has claimed some high-profile casualties.