by Colin Kiddine
Dune was one of those books that blew my twelve-year-old mind. It was something that was more than the sum of its parts, something that Frank Herbert used to explore questions of politics, gender, sexuality, economics, environmentalism, religion, why it sucks to be a messiah—and simpler questions, too, like, “What do you do when a grotesquely fat floating dude murders your dad?”
The sheer scope of the book is something that can only be appreciated when you re-read it more than once. Which is probably why it took so friggin’ long to make a film out of it. And also why it turned out to be a hot, surreal mess. But when it’s a hot, surreal mess written and directed by the likes of David Lynch, I guess it’s to be expected.