Dune

*This review contains spoilers*

Written by Frank Herbert and published in 1965, Dune is a complex sci-fi novel that explores false messiahs and how they hide oppression and violence under the promise of a better tomorrow. Its narrative excels when it comes to building a stifling, oppressive atmosphere, immersing us in the main characters’ paranoia, but it occasionally falters in its delivery of exposition and the characterization of some of its villains.

Dune’s story is structured around a feud between two noble families – the Atreides and the Harkonnens –, who fight to control the production of an important spice on the planet of Arrakis, also known as… Dune. This eventually leads to the rise of a messianic figure called Muad’Dib, who will guide the desert people of Arrakis to war.

The protagonist, the one who is bound to become Muad’Dib, is Paul Atreides, a duke’s son who is just fifteen years old but has been trained to become far more alert, perceptive, and wise than a normal child of his age. One night, he’s visited by an old woman who performs a test on him: Paul must put his hand inside a box and endure the relentless pain it will cause him without moving an inch – lest she puncture him with a needle full of poison and end his life. It’s a test to prove his worth – to prove he’s indeed special – and it’s one Paul passes with flying colors.

The first chapter alone is already full of complex themes. Paul is of noble stock; he’s the son of a duke, which is framed as a source of strength. Paul is special because of his blood, of his ancestry, of his “better” genes: they say his training only serves to awaken his dormant abilities, which means they were always there. Right before going through his first test, for example, the encouraging words Paul’s mother, Jessica, gives him are, “Remember that you’re a duke’s son.” Remember, in other words, that you are better because you are an aristocrat.

The old woman, however, quickly puts that into question, stating that her needle her needle is tipped with a poison that will kill only “animals”, and explains the use of the word: for her, men can be divided into two groups, humans and animals, and what tells them apart is the former’s ability to have mastery over their own emotions and instincts, regardless of their blood and genes: “You’ve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? There’s an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind,” she explains to Paul.

This distinction is a dangerous idea, as it can give the nobility – for this test would never be done to a commoner – an ideology that justifies their alleged superiority while denying the common people their basic humanity – they’re not even people now, but animals. “Humans must never submit to animals,” Jessica repeats to her old mentor to signal she still knows what she was trained to think: a thought that could lead to a fascistic, tyrannical rule. The old woman, in turn, even goes on to tackle eugenics, talking about the importance of setting up certain “dominant genes” and “acceptable stock,” and, of course, about the need to separate “human stock from animal stock – for breeding purposes.” Paul gets agitated with this conversation as if he instinctively senses there’s something very wrong with it.

The Bene Gesserit, the sisterhood Jessica and her old mentor are a part of, is quickly framed in a very shady light – and that’s me putting it mildly. They’re a group of women, trained in the art of manipulation and mental conditioning, with the secret goal of controlling the political forces of the universe. Their motto is a deceptive one: “We exist only to serve,” they repeat often, but just so that they can be invited into the most powerful families and be in the position to direct their fate from the shadows – for the only thing they serve is their own interests.

On the one hand, they’re all women who subvert sexist notions of gender roles, leveraging them in a futuristic society that’s actually regressed to feudal ways, with noble families controlling planetary fiefs and answering to an Emperor who has to constantly worry about maintaining his power: a society in which women must be glad to be recognized as wives instead of concubines. The Bene Gesserit is a group of very powerful women so perceptive and self-aware that they can command people with their voice alone, persuading them to do things they otherwise wouldn’t. They can even change the properties of the things they ingest, nullifying the effects of poison, for example. Not surprisingly – being women with power – they are often called witches by those around them.

On the other hand, the Bene Gesserit believe that if they can give life to a man who is able to do what they were trained to do, he would naturally surpass them. They believe in a “male savior” figure, the Kwisatz Haderach, who, precisely because he’s a man, would be able to achieve more than they could, being able to “see” things they can’t simply because of their sex. In other words, if they subvert gender roles, controlling people who believe that a woman’s role is to serve, they also believe that a man is more capable than they are – and even use eugenics to try to breed this man.

The Bene Gesserit are so manipulative that they even visit strategic worlds just to implant prophecies that will be useful for them in the future, exploiting people’s faith. One of these prophecies concerns the coming of a certain messiah to the desert of Arrakis: a man wise beyond his years who will free them from their torments and change the planet for the better. Paul’s father, Duke Leto Atreides, as soon as he hears about the prophecy, immediately tells Paul to make use of it if he ever needs aid. Leto’s characterization is of a noble, honorable man – he’s much like the inspiration for Eddard Stark in A Game of Thrones – but here we have him telling his son to make use of a people’s faith, to weaponize it to protect himself. He’s not that noble, then.

The figure of Muad’Dib is a controversial one. On the one hand, his prophecy was implanted in Arrakis with the sole purpose of being exploited at a later date, and Paul is aware of that. But on the other hand, he seems to fit that prophecy so perfectly that it still gives him an air of supernatural authenticity that no one – even his mother – can deny. There’s an early scene in which Paul instinctively feels “something stir his terrible purpose” just by reading a Bible, for example.

There’s a great deal of discussion about fate in Dune. Paul’s father, for example, is considered by everyone around him to be a dead man walking. Jessica’s mentor talks about how Leto’s fate is sealed, and there’s nothing to be done about that; his enemies thoroughly detail the plans for his assassination, and even his closest friends seem to predict what’s going to happen. Meanwhile, the epigraphs that start each chapter, which are written by characters in the future, confirm everything. Duke Leto is going to die.

These epigraphs form a crucial element of Dune’s narrative; they’re the pillars sustaining the discussion on fate. Even though there’s a spoiler warning at the beginning of this review – I only put it there so that people wouldn’t complain – this is actually a very difficult book to spoil, as it spoils itself: everything that’s going to happen is quickly laid out by these epigraphs or by the characters themselves. They all expose who’s going to die, who’s going to betray whom, and who’s going to remain loyal, revealing every major event and twist beforehand.

And why does Dune do that? Isn’t the fun of stories finding out what happens in them? We use the word “spoiler” precisely because knowing things beforehand can ruin the experience. Well, discovery and surprise can be sources of fun, yes, but they are not the only ones. Otherwise, people would never reread a book or want its movie adaptation to be faithful. No, the element of surprise is exciting, but it’s also both feeble and fleeting. The meat of a story lies not in discovering what happens in it but in experiencing those things as they happen; it lies in the characters and their dilemmas, in the discussions and themes: it lies less in the events themselves than in what they mean and the emotional and intellectual weight they carry.

So, Dune sacrifices the element of surprise to double down on the theme of fate. Since these epigraphs reveal things that are still going to happen in the story, they function as little… prophecies, binding the characters to a specific destiny as soon as they foretell it. If a chapter begins with an epigraph saying that a certain character is going to betray another or die, these characters are then robbed of their “agency,” being immediately locked into a course that will lead to said betrayal or death.

Paul’s struggle with his role on Arrakis, with his “terrible purpose”, is above all else a fight against fate. The fact that the prophecy about Muad’Dib is a fabrication doesn’t make it any less binding. Paul was trained and “bred” to fit that role, after all, whether he wants it or not. He wants to remain kind, but the events keep pushing him in the other direction.

This means that his transformation into a prophet is a heartbreaking event, and even those close to Paul have their images disfigured with time: Paul, near the end, notes how one of his friends went from being a charismatic leader to being “his creature” in the span of just a few years – and all due to the religion formed around the figure of Muad’Dib.

The prophecy was designed by the Bene Gesserit to make Paul have the outward appearance of a white savior. It focuses on all the victories he will achieve and all the positive changes he will bring. However, his role as a prophet and leader is to transform the desert people – who, very ironically, are known as the Fremen –, into an army of religious zealots. He’s not supposed to save them, but to enslave them. He is to go to the people of Arrakis and bend them to his will; not by force, but with persuasive imagery: he is to enslave them with religion, with their own acquiescence.

His Muad’Dib persona is a fearsome, sinister one: not only by the stories they tell about him (“Remember, now we speak of the Muad’Dib who ordered battle drums made from his enemies’ skin”) but also by the frequently marked contrast with his father: while Duke Leto’s honorable persona is linked to his choice to care much more about his people than about financial gain or his own life, Paul’s first questions after he becomes a prophet are about… material things. Therefore, when Paul keeps showing reluctance to play his messianic role, it’s not that familiar part of the hero’s journey – the reluctance to assume the mantle – that’s at play here because Muad’Dib is everything but a hero.

This ends up transforming the whole story of Dune into a tragedy. As we already know the fate of basically all the characters beforehand, what remains is for us to observe how they will all slowly walk into the traps laid out before them, and how they will fall, die, or become tyrants.

This also reinforces the foreboding atmosphere of the early chapters. The Atreides family has to endure several days of trials with their own lives at stake. The book begins with one such test – Paul having to put his hand inside the box – and then quickly moves to his mother Jessica, who must bluff her way out of a perilous exchange with her new mysterious housekeeper. Leto’s test, however, is the trap set against him on Arrakis, and, by all accounts, he’s the one among them who’s going to fail: “It is said that the Duke Leto blinded himself to the perils of Arrakis, that he walked heedlessly into the pit,” one of those epigraphs, a quote from “Muad’Dib: Family Commentaries,” warns us.

When the novel introduces the Atreides’ rivals, the despicable Harkonnens, it reveals every trap they set against the main characters. This chapter is crucial to the story precisely because of the oppressive atmosphere the transparent exposition of all their plans helps build: it’s like reading about a spider weaving its web right before its prey gets caught in it.

Their characterization is also interesting – but quite problematic – as their bodies reflect their twisted personalities. The Baron, who is the main antagonist, is a megalomaniacal buffoon who is not satisfied with getting his revenge on Leto; he must let the Duke know that it was he who delivered the killing blow. His appearance, then, is grotesque so as to match his villainy: “As he emerged from the shadows, his figure took on dimension – grossly and immensely fat. And with subtle bulges beneath folds of his dark robes to reveal that all his fat was sustained partly by portable suspensors harnessed to his flesh.” Meanwhile, the assassin Piter is a sadistic man who takes special pleasure in every bit of pain he causes: a man who always smiles when twisting the knife. His perversion, then, is mirrored by his body, which is very slender… and boasts an “effeminate face” – a distinguishing feature that is mentioned almost every time the character appears, linking this physical trait to his moral flaws. Not exactly great, you surely (hopefully, right?) agree.

But the first half of the novel is full of political intrigue. The characters, being well-versed in the art of catching small details in the inflection of a person’s voice or even in the manner they’re moving, are always observing the people around them for subtle clues to harmful intent and possible betrayal. They constantly communicate in secret sign languages and are always on the lookout for traps and poison. It’s a suffocating atmosphere, with the characters always tense, expecting death around every corner – and rightfully so.

A simple dinner with a banker, for example, becomes an intense game of deceit, half-truths, concessions, and implied threats and warnings, as Paul and Jessica start to uncover the political nature and true intentions of their guests. This is conveyed to us not by general observations, but by very specific and acute insights: “‘It is said…’ What a curious speech mannerism they have here. If they only knew what it reveals about their dependence on superstitions,” Jessica thinks during this scene, highlighting how the person’s choice of “It is said…” discloses something important about their personality and culture.

The narrative’s focus on thoughts – a common sentence in the book is “and [insert a character here] thought” – also heightens this tone of intrigue, where characters have “plans within plans within plans,” since this constantly juxtaposes the main characters’ actions with their intentions, and reveals what they catch of the villains’ plans and what they miss, creating this complex image of characters that are both vulnerable and highly intelligent.

The novel, however, undoubtedly suffers from a serious case of unsubtle exposition. There are a lot of info-dumps here, especially in the early chapters and at the beginning of the book’s final part: passages full of  information spelled out in a very didactic, direct manner, such as the following one in which a doctor talks to Paul about Dune’s inhabitants:

“There are two general separations of the people – Fremen, they are one group, and the others are the people of the graben, the sink, and the pan. There’s some intermarriage, I’m told. The women of the pan and sink villages prefer Fremen husbands; their men prefer Fremen wives. They have a saying: ‘Polish comes from the cities; wisdom from the desert.’”

The association of wisdom with the desert is an important narrative element, but everything that precedes it is just uninteresting fluff. This is a constant problem that particularly hurts the chapter that introduces the book’s main antagonists. Since it exposes their plan to murder Paul’s father in great detail, the pages become overcrowded with boring explanations of things we sometimes already know: “In a few days Standard, the entire household of the Duke Leto will embark on a Spacer Guild liner for Arrakis. The Guild will deposit them at the city of Arrakeen rather than at our city of Carthag. The Duke’s Mentat, Thufir Hawat, will have concluded rightly that Arrakeen is easier to defend,” the assassin Piter begins to outline the plan to the Baron, although the same details were already revealed to us earlier. In other words, we’re getting the same information twice and not in a particularly engaging manner.

The book’s final half is also not as strong as the first. There’s a big time jump later on as the narrative becomes more focused on exploring the foreign culture of the Fremen – which has a strong Middle Eastern influence, especially with the use of words like “jihad”– and the issues surrounding the prophetic figure of the Muad’Dib. The main themes remain the same, but the info-dumps come back with a vengeance, which severely hurts the pacing.

The time jump also skips important character development regarding Paul’s turn into this menacing, uncaring figure, which can make his change feel a bit abrupt. Finally, the last part feels like it could have benefited from a few more pages to give some of the side characters a little more room to breathe – especially the ones who are introduced too late in the story but still play a great role in the final events.

Dune is a very ambitious and complex novel with a huge cast of fascinating characters and a narrative structure tailor-made to delve into their minds and reinforce the tragedy of their journeys. However, it also suffers from some blatant exposition, an underdeveloped ending, and a couple of problematic characterizations.

September 11, 2026.

Review originally published in Portuguese on July 17, 2020.