My slight obsession with all things Dune began back when I was thirteen when a good buddy of mine recommended to me Frank Herbert’s first Dune novel – which I promptly borrowed from my dad, who had a first printing copy – and the David Lynch cinematic adaptation which coincidentally came out mere months later. From there, I was enraptured with this future historical epic – much as I once was with Narnia and Middle-Earth.
What I loved most about Herbert’s original six-volume Dune series was how he captured the messianic fervor and fictitious-intellectual underpinnings of a future history in which prophecy is slowly – albeit ambiguously -- revealed. Even subtler, the religiosity of his self-contained universe was never fully explained, with many a plot thread that was left unraveled for the reader to ponder and muse upon – much as the most die-hard Lord of the Ring fans do when they scour his notes and drafts, which are collectively published under the History of Middle-Earth series that are edited by his son Christopher. (I would also argue that this is what I loved about Dan Simmons’ audaciously original series, The Hyperion Cantos and his most recent double-feature, Illium and Olympos.) How and where did the Bene Gesserit, the Guild, the mentats of Bene Theilax originate? What happened to Earth all so long ago? And what is the real history of the Butlerian Jihad that ushered in a new era in which humans forbade themselved from making machines in their image? This is what I loved about the Herbert’s work, and it is this that I alternately love and hate about Brian and Kevin’s novelizations of Frank’s huge accumulation of notes, ideas, and – at least for Hunters and Sandworms of Dune – planned novels after his last, Chapterhouse: Dune.
Although Paul of Dune is to be their last book – according to current-reckoning – Brian and Kevin have published eight other additional Dune books in the last ten years. For the most part, the first in each of their companion trilogies – most notably Dune: House Atreides and The Butlerian Jihad – were the best. Both of these breathed new life into the mysterious world of Arrakis and the coming of the Kwisartz Haderach – the super-being of Bene Gesserit and Fremen prophecy. Jihad, in particular, is probably the best book in the entire prequel/sequel series, as it carefully and theatrically unfolds the dramatic moment in future history – a fulcrum, if you will -- on which the fate of the human race was determined in the moment of one woman’s stand and martyrdom against the machines. (Sarah Connor from the Terminator mythos was never so bold, I suggest.) But these are the highest points in an otherwise mediocre series that leaves too little to the imagination. And by that, I mean that Brian and Kevin pull back the curtain too far to show us every single motivation, explain away every previously unrevealed mystery; all while taking away a little of the magic of Frank’s awe-inspiring future universe.
The best part of Paul of Dune is the one-half of the book that deals with the years in-between Dune and Dune Messiah, as Paul, Alia, and their allies deal with the near-constant machinations of the disgraced former Emperor and his cronies. The other half, which alternates with the main-plotline, gives us a glimpse back in the not-too-far-distant past when Paul, as a young boy, became involved in the War of Assassins which involved no less than the marriage of his father, the Duke, to a fellow noble’s kinswoman. Although this works as a narrative device – both plotlines mirror each other quite effectively in theme and purpose – I can’t help but feel that Brian and Kevin are rewriting the Dune legend, and dulling ever-so-slightly my once starry-eyed imagination.
In short: I enjoy the new Dune books, but I loved the originals even better. And like New Coke, sometimes you just can’t improve upon the original – no matter how sweet you make it.