I still remember the first time I saw Dune. It was opening day in the 1980s, and my father took me to the Lansing Mall Theater. It is one of the few movie trips I can still picture clearly—the smell of popcorn, the glowing marquee lights, the hum of anticipation in the air. I remember standing beside that enormous cardboard display, staring up at an image of a vast desert and a creature unlike anything I had ever seen before. I did not know much about the story, but I sensed even then that it carried a kind of gravity. It was not just entertainment; it was a world that wanted to say something about power, faith, and destiny.

That afternoon planted something in me that would linger for decades. The film technology and special effects are antique by today’s standards, but to a child in the 1980s, it was astonishing. The scope of its worldbuilding, the texture of its language, and the complexity of its politics made it unforgettable. I walked out of that theater knowing I had seen something that mixed philosophy and fantasy in a way that few films dared. Dune was not only about empires and deserts; it was about the choices that make leaders and the costs they carry. Even as a young viewer, I could feel that beneath the sand and spectacle, there was a warning.

Over the years, as I grew older and became more aware of what leadership really demands, Dune began to feel prophetic. Herbert’s story was not only about an imagined future; it was about the patterns that repeat through history whenever power and morality collide. Every generation has its Arrakis, its deserts of scarcity and conflict, its heroes who rise believing they can save the world only to discover that salvation always comes at a cost.

The Return to Arrakis

When Denis Villeneuve released Dune: Part One and Part Two, I approached them with a mix of nostalgia and caution. I wondered whether modern audiences would feel the same sense of awe that I had as a child, or whether the story would be lost in the translation to twenty-first-century cinema. For some, the new adaptations felt slow or overly stylized, but I saw something different. I saw an artist attempting to make cinema feel vast again, to stretch time and space so that viewers could experience the desert as both a physical and spiritual landscape.

The visuals were breathtaking. The sand felt alive, the silence heavy with meaning, and the architecture of each planet seemed to hold centuries of memory. Villeneuve’s vision captured the grandeur of Herbert’s imagination while grounding it in human struggle. The performances were carefully balanced between myth and intimacy. Timothée Chalamet’s portrayal of Paul Atreides carried both the vulnerability of youth and the burden of prophecy. Rebecca Ferguson as Lady Jessica embodied the moral complexity of a mother torn between love and duty. Zendaya’s Chani, fierce and grounded, gave the rebellion of the Fremen a face and a pulse that resonated deeply.

What stayed with me most, though, was the rebellion itself. The Fremen are not just an oppressed people; they are an idea. They remind us that even under the weight of empire, communities can hold on to identity, purpose, and faith. Watching them rise against impossible odds felt like watching the human spirit rediscover itself. Villeneuve understood that Dune was not about a single savior but about the collective power of those who refuse to accept domination as destiny. I found that profoundly moving. The films, for all their artistic imperfections, succeeded in reminding us that resistance, in any age, is a form of hope.

The Heart and the Empire

Revisiting Dune as an adult has transformed how I read its central themes. One line from Dune Messiah, the second novel that has not been covered by a Hollywood yet, hits me more than any other. Paul Atreides, now the ruler of an empire he never truly wanted, reflects, “The heart is not a reliable organ for governing.” That sentence alone could serve as a treatise on leadership. It is as relevant today as it was when Herbert wrote it.

Paul learns, too late, that his greatest strengths—compassion, empathy, and conviction—are also his greatest vulnerabilities. His love for his people becomes his blindness. His fear of repeating the mistakes of those before him leads him into new forms of control. Herbert’s warning is subtle but devastating: emotion can guide our conscience, but it cannot serve as the compass for governance. The heart is a vital source of purpose, but without discipline and discernment, it leads even the righteous into ruin.

Herbert expands this idea in another reflection: “Governments, if they endure, always tend increasingly toward aristocratic forms.” The moment power becomes centralized, it begins to protect itself. Good intentions solidify into bureaucracy, and bureaucracy calcifies into hierarchy. It is not cruelty that drives this process but the quiet pull of convenience. Herbert understood that love of power and fear of loss are emotional twins. Both can turn noble ideals into systems of control that eventually betray their original purpose.

From Arrakis to Our World

Watching Dune in this decade, the parallels with our own world are difficult to miss. We live in a time when emotion drives much of public life. Outrage has become a form of political currency. Fear is a marketing tool. Loyalty is measured in how loudly we affirm a president. In such a landscape, Herbert’s warning feels less like science fiction and more like diagnosis. When leaders begin to govern through feeling—whether that feeling is anger, pity, or devotion—the boundary between justice and vengeance begins to blur.

We see this not only in politics but in institutions of every kind. Universities, corporations, and governments all struggle to balance empathy with accountability. The challenge is not to feel less but to think more clearly about how feeling is used. Herbert reminds us that emotion must serve principle, not the other way around. The heart may animate our humanity, but without reason and restraint, it can easily become an instrument of harm.

For me, this is what makes Dune so enduring. Beneath the sandworms and battles lies a meditation on how societies collapse when emotion overtakes wisdom. The fall of House Atreides is not simply a tragedy of war; it is the story of what happens when noble people forget that leadership requires both courage and caution. It is a parable for every generation that confuses passion with purpose.

Head and Heart: The Discipline of Wise Leadership

To say that the heart is not reliable for governing does not mean we should lead without compassion and love that I blogged about earlier this week. It means that compassion must be tempered by clarity. Herbert was not arguing for coldness but for balance. The best leaders, whether in politics, education, or everyday life, are those who can feel deeply without allowing emotion to dictate every choice. They know that empathy without boundaries becomes indulgence, and conviction without reflection becomes extremism.

In my own experience leading institutions and working in public life, I have seen this truth repeated. The moments when leadership feels most human are often the moments when it is most dangerous. When you care deeply, you risk losing perspective. When you are driven by outrage or affection, it becomes easier to mistake reaction for responsibility. The discipline of wise leadership lies in pausing long enough to let the head interpret what the heart feels. That pause, that breath, is what separates principle from impulse.

Why Dune Still Matters

Perhaps that is why Dune has endured across generations. When I watched it with my father in Lansing all those years ago, I saw a strange and thrilling story about deserts and destiny. Watching Villeneuve’s version today, I see a mirror held up to our own moment in history. The film’s imagery of rebellion and empire feels universal, but its moral questions feel personal. How do we lead without losing our humanity? How do we stand for justice without becoming what we oppose? How do we remember that power is a means, not an identity?

The closing scene of Dune: Part Two gives voice to the same warning Herbert wrote decades ago. As Paul ascends to power, Emperor Shaddam IV, portrayed with quiet menace by Christopher Walken, delivers the line: “The heart is not meant to rule.” The words fall like a confession from a man who has seen how the emotions of rulers—fear, pride, greed—shape the fate of worlds. Villeneuve’s decision to place that truth in the Emperor’s dialogue, rather than Paul’s, is both poetic and tragic. That moment bridges the gap between Dune: Part Two and the inevitable Dune Messiah. It shows how victories achieved through emotion inevitably harden into systems sustained by fear. Villeneuve’s restraint in that final scene is masterful. There is no need for speeches or spectacle. The Emperor’s quiet line becomes prophecy. The heart is not meant to rule, but it always tries.

When I think back to that day in the 1980s, sitting beside my father in the darkened theater, I realize now that what I loved most about Dune was not the spectacle but the struggle. Beneath the desert and the prophecy was a deeper truth—the test of what it means to lead, to believe, and to endure. It asked its audience to confront the cost of greatness, the weight of destiny, and the fragile balance between power and purpose.

Those questions still matter. The world will always have leaders driven by ambition and movements charged by emotion. But history reminds us that true leadership begins within. Only those who learn to govern their own hearts can hope to guide others toward something greater than themselves.

I give Villeneuve’s Dune films, ★★★★☆. They are not flawless, but they are courageous. They take a story that might have been reduced to spectacle and return it to philosophy. They give us not just a universe to marvel at, but questions to wrestle with. That, to me, is the hallmark of great storytelling.

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Julian Vasquez Heilig is a civil rights leader, scholar, and lifelong sci-fi fan who believes that great storytelling can teach us as much about humanity as history books can. He owns all three Hollywood productions of Dune and watches them often, still discovering new meaning each time. At home, Julian has built his own theater, a space where he can return to the wonder of his youth, sitting beside his memories in the dark and letting powerful stories unfold across the screen. When he’s not writing about education, equity, or democracy, he spends his Saturday nights there, revisiting films that challenge the mind, move the heart, and linger long after the credits roll.