If David Lynch couldn’t make heads or tails of Frank Herbert’s famously unfilmable novel, what was it about Denis Villeneuve that pegged him as the visionary needed to tame the 412-page beast? Sure, he did a splendid job of piloting the equally indomitable sequel to Blade Runner, but this time around, the future’s not looking bright. Herbert’s sci-fi touchstone posited a spice as the most valuable commodity in the universe. From the look of things, I’m guessing color placed a close second. Somewhere between 2049 and 10191, the year in which Dune is set, it seems that Villeneuve lost the recipe for pigmentation. Everything about this production is colorless. To say it’s not an actor’s film is an understatement. Other than Stellan Skarsgård’s Jabba-rrific Baron, there’s not a memorable performance on view, least of all Timothée Chalamet's youthful hero. The point of his chin tucked hard against his windpipe prompts a ubiquitous downward-tilt of the forehead, like Bronte’s tortured Heathcliff posing for a Vanity Fair layout. A sequel is in the works, but I’m done with Dune. (2021) — Scott Marks
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