Coming off the unsightly splendour of The Elephant Man, weirdy genius David Lynch took a shot at a blockbuster epic, attempting to film Frank Herbert's sprawling, quasi-religious doorstopper of a sci-fi novel. Lynch wanted three hours. The producers wanted two.
The moneymen won. What's left is a neutered space pantomime, the eye-snagging visuals weighed down by shoddy ham-dram acting, hanging plot stands (a messiah who talks to giant worms!?) and Sting in an orange frightwig. Don't worry, girls - - he's married.