In the midst of the human rights movement, hippies and the vietnam war, a then little known auther named Frank Herbert gave birth to one of history's most influential and long-lived science fiction epics, the saga of the desert planet 'Dune'.
Over the following two decades the series found millions of fans, and rightly so. Its depth of thought and gripping intricacy more than merits the fanaticism of its followers.
Quite understandable it is then, that after giving us so many hours of fascination, we find ourselves betrayed by the ones who took upon themselves the task of keeping alive the spirit of 'Dune'.
First, we were presented with David Lynch's cinematic adaptation. Visually as perfect as can be, but, as is the nature of fanatics, we were left wanting at the effort to condense the immensity of the first of the series into one 120 minute film. The insertion of the 'weirding module' as a plot device is ridiculous, despite the blessing of the creator himself. The omission of the central feature of 'other memory', the moronic idea of guild navigators actually bending space themselves, with no mention of the 'holtzmann generator', all these things left us disappointed, though as it seems, this would be the best of all works in the new 'Duniverse'.
Then came the first 'Dune' novel in nearly fifteen years, authored by none other than Brian Herbert, son of the creator himself, and Kevin J. Anderson, a sci-fi author responsible for numerous spin-off novels, most notably in the 'Star Wars' universe. This alliance would prove the most damning blow to the fanbase of the original saga.
Their abominations which they then proclaimed canon, were riddled with inconsistencies, ridiculous simplicity and sheer bad writing. The 'Duniverse' as we knew and loved it was heading for a cliff, and there was nothing we could do about it.
Nevertheless, we bought the abominations. We read them out of our near herion-like addiction for more tales of the spice and of 'Arrakis'. The more we read, the more our hearts broke at the slow death of the epic.
Then came the Sci-Fi Channel mini series. 15 years after Lynch's valiant, but nevertheless failed effort, the saga had another shot at the moving pictures. Alas, once again we were disappointed. Where Lynch had failed, the series succeeded. Where Lynch had succeeded, the series failed... miserably and fatally. Though the series stayed true to most of the plot and the ideas, the execution was so poor, so terribly cheap-looking, that we wrench in pain at the sight. A cuddly Ian McNeice playing the most vile of characters ever to be dreamt up. A pathetic looking youngster with a few liver-spots being sold to us as the future God-Emperor of the known Duniverse... the sandtrout became a living stillsuit not a few patches on his shoulder!
Then came 'Hunters of Dune', the oh so long awaited conclusion to the original saga. We pre-ordered our copies, we revelled as we opened them upon arrival, we cried out loud at the bubble-gum sci-fi it had turned out to be. Gone are the twists and turns, gone are the plots within plots, gone are the feelings of timeless scale.
All we have left is a terminator/matrix clone but with the characters we so loved smack dab in the middle of it all...
Farewell Duncan, you poor bastard
Farewell Miles, we had so much hope vested in you
Farewell Sheeana, we prayed you would not become what you have
Farewell Scytale, you devious critter
Farewell Murbella, we always hated you, but now we hate you even more.
