Ten trillion years into the future, the universe is ruled by WASPs. The known galaxies are governed by a frumpish emperor, who acts like ineffectual middle-management, and gets his orders from an elite class of gigantic foetuses that fold space by expelling luminous space cum. Viewers are prompted to throw their lot in with an Aryan gang named the Atreides who dress in Afrika Korps jodhpurs when visiting the titular planet. Their sworn enemies are the Harkonnen, a family of sadistic red heads who covet disease and pointless, excruciating violence. The first part of Dune is dense with exposition. Vendettas are explained at length and each character's inner monologue is expressed through terse, breathy whispers. These early scenes - in which House Atreides sit secure in the galactic hierarchy - have a recognisable sort of order to them. Plots within plots shape an unfolding narrative that seems to be about a glacial palace intrigue. When Duke Leto, the Atreides patriarch, is murdered any sense of this organisation is instantly abandoned. Dune suddenly stops trying to be a rational series of events, instead becoming a collage of the impossible. That is what makes director David Lynch's Dune so completely wonderful. Any recognisable human experience dies with the Duke. That which remains is given over to the callous ascension of an infallible God Emperor and his rock opera earworm.
