| By Aaron | pg 1 of 14 |
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"Is there not an appointed time for man to rest upon the earth? Are his days to always be as those of a slave? O, my flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust; my skin is broken and become loathsome. My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and spent forever without hope. Remember that my life is wind: mine eye shall see no more good."-- The Revised Orange Catholic Bible (Job 7:4-8)
Previously on Dune: Plots were hatched. Worms were kidnapped. Hats were ugly. And Leto and Ghanima Atreides were born, raised, and attacked by giant man-eating tigers. And then they kissed!
Planet shot. "History is written on the sands of Arrakis," announces the obligatory opening Irulan Interlude. "Where rebellion and civil war continue to breed, fed by Alia's brutal tyranny and repression, as she sinks deeper into the abomination of her own ghost." Well, technically speaking, it's actually the Baron's ghost and not her own, but I'm more concerned about the abomination of those laughable live-action "riot" shots they've mixed in here with some otherwise highly impressive CGI work showing Arrakeen in flames. Alia, who's wearing a prom dress made out of aluminum foil with a giant bow tied around her breasts, reacts to the anarchy in the streets below as she does to pretty much everything else: with the aggrieved tone of Beverly Hills soon-to-be sixteen-year-old who's just been advised she's getting a Toyota instead of a Mercedes for her birthday. She's even mean to Javid, for God's sack, and he's really pretty! After dismissing her entourage, Javid included, Alia informs the Baron that she's "not in the mood to indulge in [his] lurid perversions tonight." Hmm. Does that mean she won't be having sex with The Preacher? What? It's not like it doesn't run in the family. Literally, in fact. Out in the hallway, Javid risks mussing his perfectly coiffed locks so that he can press an ear against the door to overhear what must sound to him like a very strange one-sided conversation. Alas, poor Javid. I can only imagine what the slash-fic fans are going to do with you.
Violating the screenwriter's "show, don't tell" credo like only a man named Tyeksposition can truly do, our intrepid puffy-shirt-clad font of information informs Princess Sarandonia that Duncan Idaho and the Lady Jessica have decided to seek sanctuary from Alia in the most unlikely of places: right there on Sofia Secundus. Sarandonia has some reservations about accepting two known enemies such as these into the Corrino fold, but Farad'n thinks it's a phenomenal idea. Or at least he seems to. It's sort of hard to tell, what with the way he keeps forgetting his lines mid-sentence. One gets the sense that in any other universe, Farad'n would more likely than not be suiting up at left tackle for some godforsaken Division III farming college and indulging in regular Saturday night brewski-fueled bouts of cow-tipping with his frat brothers in the ΔΩΝΣ house. As if to confirm this hypothesis, Farad'n declares that the only reason he wants them to stay is so that he can continue his education with a proper Bene Gesserit professor. "Any woman who can seduce Duke Leto Atreides and a planet full of desert Fremen is not to trifled with," purrs Sarandonia, suspecting an ulterior motive. "Are you suggesting she might try to seduce me?" wonders an incredulous Farad'n. "Would you like her to seduce you?" replies Mommy. Oh, Susie. I know Anne Bancroft. Anne Bancroft was a friend of mine. And you, madam, are no Anne Bancroft. Sarandonia reluctantly agrees to accept Jessica as a tutor, and dismisses her son to go plow the back forty. If you care, by the way, her outfit for this scene includes a cleavage-baring velour evening gown and her standard hat fashioned with several steel-tipped cilia that appear to be multiplying exponentially in number from one night to the next. So here's to you, Mrs. Farad'n. Clearly the costume crew hates you more than you will know.