Denis Villeneuve
Dune

I wrote this review when I saw it in the cinema when it first came out. I couldn't send it because I was recently banned, but I'm sending it now to refresh your memory as the second part will be out very soon.

The film works since at the end, one surprisingly exclaims, "Is it over already?" Villeneuve recovers the magic of cinema's interim moments, like the good old days of childhood.

One can't argue about the "slowness" of the film; it's like talking about the plot when one doesn't know what to say, and by clinging to the story, a chronological path of imposed time is always created. The distortion lies in thinking about the exact hour. Here, the footholds for this perversion are limited. There's still scattered testosterone and martial arts corrupted by useless movements and whirlwinds, but at least the camera remains steady.

The psyche of expectations and resolutions, visions, premonitions, and that "everything happens" which you can't do a damn thing about, involve the viewer in the invisible concrete of reality. Stereotypes and symbolism abound here too, but the desert's stasis, the worms' inexorability, and the banality of evil never in the foreground, make the film slide with little complaisance.

Sure, everything remains circumscribed in duality; battles are outward for the inner, and not vice versa, but it unfolds without just heating the seat, given the material coolness of the shoot.

If you notice, the desert is flat, internally comforting all of us with this desolation that requires subtraction to grow. The worms create the Dunes, create the movement so as not to go insane, create "the summer's warm wind (which) is taking us away."

The contribution of the young prince is fundamental in not being a local who nevertheless knows a lot about the desert's dangers. In him, adaptation proceeds in reverse where in others it's adapting to climatic conditions.

Regarding Hans Zimmer's soundtrack, back then also with our Krisma on Cathode Mamma, I read in the end credits: "Exotic instruments Chas Smith." And from there, Hans' cosmic sound evolves into uniqueness, unusual metallic percussions and reverberations are integrated with symphonies that expand immeasurably, devouring everything, worm-like.

Many things recycled, but if one has a good budget, the arrogance of money creates great aesthetic vanity for the work. Similarities for similarities, for instance, Alexander the Great's mother was a witch, the desert filmed á la Herzog, the psychomagic shadow of Jodorowsky, the sound of deep space by Ligeti, the heli-beetles' Apocalypse Now, the evil Archons. Sure, if even in the year 10,000 plus we're still caught up in bloody power games, we're in trouble.

But the real drug is the hope of an ever-becoming Messiah, and meanwhile, onward with the sale of indulgences and opiated commercialization of the "spice." Let's move on to the second part to see where faith will lead.

The production delayed approving the second round (but it was already okay) simply to create tension and expectation, but these games do neither hot nor cold for us who "like to eat and drink and don't like to work."

Will it end with the Mitra killing the bull, or will we get caught up doing surf with the worms?