When Denis Villeneuve’s adaptation of Dune arrived in theaters in 2021, many fans were anticipating how their favorite sci-fi characters would be showcased on screen. However, because this would be the third on-screen rendition—after the 2000 Syfy miniseries and David Lynch’s 1984 film—of Frank Herbert’s iconic series, fans were also apprehensive. One of the major concerns from queer fans of the series was how Herbert’s work—which was blatantly homophobic—would translate in the 2020s, and whether the Quebecois director would be able to rectify the novel’s failings.
In Herbert’s novels, the villain, Baron Valdimir Harkonnen, (played in Villeneuve’s films by Stellan Skarsgaard) is worse than just a gay stereotype: His character can essentially be boiled down to being a pedophilic and incestuous menace. On top of that, he is described with a repulsion that makes it clear that nothing about this character is redeemable, from his sexuality to his body and the way the two combine. His body and sexuality are paired to showcase how the Baron abuses young slave boys, with the villain even describing the underage protagonist Paul Atreides as having “such a sweet young body.” Herbert directly makes Harkonnen even more repulsive by having him use the same language towards his nephew Feyd-Rautha (Austin Butler in Dune: Part Two), who is also underaged, later on in the novel.
But, of course, this isn’t the modern Harkonnen we know. Instead, he now resembles a looming pale-bodied parasite who commands the room with his stature and political power. All inklings of the harmful gay stereotypes that plagued the pages of Dune have now been shed, but that doesn't mean that these adaptations are formally devoid of queer subtext. One of the first instances of Villeneuve’s Dune films allowing queerness to flow under the radar, involves the Baron himself, and Duke Leto Atreides (Oscar Isaac). No matter the rendition, Harkonnen is clearly obsessed with this family; thankfully, it’s Paul’s father he is enamored with rather than Paul himself.
After an assassination attempt on the Atreides family, Duke Leto is captured and held hostage by the Harkonnens. In this scene, he is nearly immobilized, naked body cascaded upon a chair, with only a long dining table obscuring his genitals. Isaac’s body resembles that of an ancient Greek statue, limbs elongated to the point that he appears staged, as if the Baron’s lackeys placed him like this specifically for their master's enjoyment. The villain in question sits at the opposite end of the table, feasting upon a cacophony of food while gazing at the man across from him.
This is where Villeneuve makes it clear that in his version of Herbert’s story, queerness would run beneath the surface of his adaptation, but this doesn’t mean it is omitted completely. Instead, it’s given room to breathe, devoid of the harmful stereotypes that Herbert’s work was previously riddled with.
While Dune: Part Two is really where the subtext blooms, the sequel's predecessor wasn’t necessarily lacking. After Dune’s release in 2021, Paul (Timothée Chalamet) was transformed into a queer character by the fandom. While this isn’t a surprise, considering Chalamet’s status as a queer cinema darling, the impact of this is undoubtedly more poignant than it was when the other renditions were released. After the first film was released, a popular ship rose in the fandom between Paul and his friend Duncan Idaho (Jason Mamoa). Despite Duncan’s campy name, he and Paul don’t necessarily appear to share much subtext surrounding their relationship in the first film. However, because Idaho sacrificed his life for Paul, fanfiction about the two as star-crossed lovers blew up. Currently on fanfiction site Archiveofourown.org, the pairing has 251 fanworks dedicated to them—the most of any Dune ship—with the earliest debuting in 2003 and the latest written just this month.
In Dune: Part Two, Paul’s relationship with men gets even more homoerotic. First, there is Stilgar (Javier Bardem), whose blind faith leads him to obsessively view Paul as a messiah, following his every step like a man possessed. He believes in Paul’s message, yes, but underneath this Stilgar seems guided by something deeper. Javier Bardem’s eyes follow Chalamet’s every move, watching his new leader as if he can’t quite believe Paul is real. And this is how most of the men in Dune: Part Two look at Paul: They gaze upon him like he was crafted by the stars themselves, listening to his words while closely watching his face and body as well.
The film also harnesses Paul’s queerness in the way he views the men in his life. Dune sees Paul having visions not only of Chani (Zendaya), his female love interest, but also one of Chani’s male friends, Jamis (Babs Olusanmokun). In the sequel, Janis continues to appear to Paul in visions, almost like a guardian angel, with Paul often pleading for the dead man's guidance. Halfway through the film, when Paul is on a test crossing the desert alone to prove himself to the Fremen, he envisions Jamis crouched upon a sand dune.
Paul assumes that it’s Janis that’s positioned in front of the waning sun, cloaking his body and face in darkness. But, once the body speaks back to Paul, the film reveals it to be Chani standing upon the sand. Here, Villeneue is comparing the impact both of these characters have on Paul’s relationship to the Fremen, as well as their position as guides for his journey. Juxtaposing Chani’s impact as Paul’s love interest with what could be seen as her male counterpart further underlines the film’s queer subtext.
It’s not just Paul whose character Villeneuve has transformed for the screen. In Lynch’s 1984 adaptation and Dune: Part Two, Feyd-Rautha (Austin Butler) has an aura that exudes so much queerness, it’s nearly overwhelming. In Lynch’s film, the character’s colourful clothing and heightened personality exude the campiness of Herbert’s novels, while the character goes through a physical transformation in the 2024 film. At first, it’s jarring, but once Butler’s version fully appears—and we’re given a glimpse at his bare modern-day nonbinary micro-celebrity eyebrows—it becomes apparent that this version of Feyd-Rautha may be queerer than Sting’s interpretation.
When the audience is first introduced to him in Part Two, the camera begins on his torso, slowly moving up as servants paint his stark white skin with black paint. As the camera continues to pan up, it’s as if Villeneuve himself is struck by the body on screen, capturing it with an attraction that only grows each time Butler appears. We witness his physical prowess in battle, forcing us to confront the idea that this may be the only physical competition for Paul. In competition comes desire for Feyd, who uses violence to unleash his desires.
At one point in the film, Feyd forces his brother, Glossu Rabban Harkonnen (Dave Bautista), to kneel before him and kiss his boot. While the Harkonnens have always been incestuous, from Herbert’s novel to now Villeneuve’s adaptation, I was shocked when I witnessed this in the theater. Yes, it’s used as a way for Feyd to impose power upon his older brother, who is losing respect from their uncle, but it is nearly impossible not to think about the iconic work of gay artist Tom of Finland while this is happening. The pale white skin of the Harkonnens is juxtaposed against the sleek black boot Feyd wears, emulating the black-and-white images that Finland was known for.
From his brother to his uncle, Feyd seems increasingly interested in sexual taboos. When the Baron cloaks him as emperor of Caladan, he cups his nephew’s face gently and kisses him on the lips. In Part Two, Feyd’s response is unlike that of his previous renditions; he grasps his uncle's face with a sense of ferocity, kissing him on the lips once more. In this exchange of kisses, it feels as if their physical relationship is one inherently based on power and sex, which can be said for all of Feyd’s relationships in the film. Later, once he and Paul are about to duel, he gets a rise out of Paul's admission that the two are cousins. After this, it appears that Feyd’s initial attraction to Paul intensifies, smirking and gazing at him with a fervor that continues on as they duel.
While the queer leanings of Baron Valdimir Harkonnen are undeniably crude in the novel, the aging-up of Feyd (and Paul) allows queerness a space to breathe in Villenueve’s films. Here, queerness aids in the understanding of relationships between villains and heroes and every archetype in between, allowing Herbert’s original text to expand in a way most adaptations aren’t able to.
By shedding the series’ main villain of his problematic queerness, Denis Villenueve doesn’t completely shed the series of queerness at all. Instead, it lays beneath the sands of the film's setting, only coming to light in the briefest of ways, and while that may seem like an unfortunate omission for some, to me, it makes the queerness we do find all the more impactful. From uncle-kissing villains to Paul’s affinity for unintentionally seducing older men, Dune and Dune: Part Two become a sci-fi world where queerness is palpable. Here, men look at each other as if they want to consume each other, gazes unwavering even in the midst of a fight. It’s undeniably a choice Villeneuve made, and one that opens this series up to a queer reading devoid of the original homophobia that plagued Herbert’s work. Thankfully, Dune: Part Two forces the series’ queerness to come to light more organically, in turn reinventing the original text along the way.
