“Dune: Part 2” is the poster-child for “anti-climactic”, in ways other than it being the middle-child of a trilogy. There were fleeting moments when I really thought director Denis Villeneuve had pulled it off (finally), such as Jessica drinking the Water Of Life, or Paul breaking a sandworm. But these sequences of visual & auditory awe are constantly at odds with Villeneuve’s unrestrained desire to cut away from the action, and bring the audience back to the small-scale drama of its core characters: a drama by its very prophetic nature tensionless.

All of what I liked and didn’t about the prequel is back in-force: it’s well framed & shot, but its production design is too distilled for a Strange New World; Hans Zimmer’s soundtrack is campy and borderline plagiaristic of the music from the 1984 movie; and Timothée Chalamet’s “Paul Muad’dib Usul Atreides, Duke of Arrakis” is a blank slate of whiny flippy-flop onto whom the audience can vicariously live out the experience (although credit goes to Timothy’s fight double, who does a pretty-sweet triple roll off Feyd-Rautha in the climax).

This round, however, Villeneuve refuses to allow his action scenes the same breathing room he gives the human story. Yes, there are breathtaking individual shots of the conflict, but no magnifying glass brought up to it. The spectacle is only present long enough for viewers to recognize it as the canvas in which the drama is played out, but not long enough for it to be felt emotionally at the same extent Villeneuve treats the dialogues. Like the prequel, the scope that the story insinuates is lost in favour of the myopic problems of its celebrity actors. For a three-hour, $200-million movie in this day and age, audiences should demand more.

As much as I’m a softie for the ’84 adaptation, I’m the first to admit its patchwork second half (which was never properly finished) is probably not a good representation of the first Dune novel’s denouement. Here, Villeneuve had a limitless opportunity – financially & corporately – to actually conclude some of the story without struggling to condense too much one deemed “narratively important” into a studio-mandated running time. Instead, we got Frank Herbert as sifted through Denis’s litter box.

1.5 out of 5