But with all the eclectic true talent that had begun to assemble for this project, why do I so flagrantly assert the dismissal that this film wouldn't have lived up to any of their collective potential? -- Eight syllables: Al-lay-han-dro * Joad-doe-row-ski.
Anyone with a passing knowledge of the silver tongued snake-oil salesman of highlight here, understands that -- while he may be a great teller of tall tales -- he is not a great storyteller. Not in the least. Would-be auteur Alejandro Jodorowsky comes from the "avant-garde" art scene -- which is just a pretentious way of saying he has a propensity for vacuous kitschy pop perversion, yet is able to hide under a fancy Frog word to validate it. The man is known not for great movies, but for playing to the lowest common denominator of art affectation. Oh so loving odes to the scatological and profane; incoherent posturing strung together through cute little images of blasphemy and vile sadism.
Jodorowsky wants to adorn himself an out-of-time progressive renaissance man of immense enlightenment, but his thoughtless philistinism is like a low-rent tribute to the depraved vapid vulgarity that hallmarked the careers of Andy Warhol, Ken Russell, John Waters, and Pier Paolo Pasolini -- but without even attaining their unmerited impact. It's quite telling that anyone who will indulge with Jodorowsky in substance abuse, cater to his ego, or allow themselves subjugated to his insane whims are distinguished by Jodorowsky as "Spiritual Warriors", while those with more sober senses are "Soulless". And eyes roll toward the darkest recesses of cranial cavitations having to endure the permeation of such blustering nonsense go completely unchallenged.
Instead of plausibly translating the grand universe of intricate histories, theology, political intrigue, and power struggles that "Dune" author Frank Herbert scribed so illustriously, Jodorowsky would have desecrated its eminent quality by substituting debased detours catering to the diseased of spirit, in giddy honor of degradation and silly pseudo-philosophic utopianism. Because that's who Alejandro Jodorowsky is -- a man who insist the collaborative nature of film-making and adapting authors' works has to be an act of defilement, and bolsters that claim by analogizing it to a marriage night where the husband must forcefully violate his wife, because to continue to regard her with respect could never produce a child -- so "Rape! RAPE! RAPE!... but with love". That's how this guy's mind works. He only cares about himself, and is perfectly fine to abuse others to get his way -- even though his way holds not one shred of virtue. Of course he would cast his own pre-pubescent young son to scurry about fully nude in his odious "art-films" for no honest reason other than pedophilic pleasure. This is a man who literally films defections for scat enthusiasts. Jodorowsky is not an artist, he's a charlatan of art -- he doesn't express the humanities, only dehumanization -- he's an exploitative sensationalist rather than imperative provocateur.
The most bizarre aspect of this documentary is not even the gonzo eccentric at its heart, but rather the fact that this deviant was ever even considered a viable pillar to hinge a major investment on! Of course his rambling nonsense would be forsaken once money needed milking, but before that reality set in, Jodorowsky had already recruited (most probably exclusively through vice enticement) an incredible array of superstar talent for both ends of the lens. This examination does nevertheless merit attention for the grotesque fascination of learning about an adaptation of Frank Herbert's novel that would have managed to be even more of a corruption than David Lynch's vomit, whilst simultaneously tainting so many bright young talent's careers -- after casting their bests into an abyss of excrement under the abominable shepherding of Alejandro Jodorowsky - - and possibly derailing their destinies in genre film's hall of legends. At least half of the legacy citations it stretches to tie to Jodorowsky's credit as direct lineage progeny are -- to be generous -- highly suspect, and I just don't at all agree with its ridiculous thesis that this was "the greatest movie never made".
Now if proved virtuoso, consummate professional and diligent filmmaker Ridley Scott had realized HIS planned vision for "Dune" -- maybe that truly is one of the great missed opportunities that would have birthed a legitimate masterpiece! Hmm... perhaps a sequel is in order: