Few sci-fi epics are as sprawling or as mad as Frank Herbert's Dune. I should know. I love all that nerd stuff. So, when the latest adaptation's trailer landed yesterday – a costly star-studded summer blockbuster with Timothée Chalamet, Zendaya and Oscar Isaac under the steer of Arrival director Denis Villeneuve – millions no doubt felt a rush on par with a hit of "spice": the mystical, dusty narcotic that is seen waltzing in the sunset of the desert planet Arrakis. Its scarcity fuels more terror and diplomacy than that suffered by a lone dealer in the smoking area of Corsica Studios. But that wasn't what caused me to trip. That heady buzz was scraped from the pockets of Chalamet and Chalamet alone.
In the opening section of the film's trailer (which seemed to careen between moments of Zendaya seemingly agitated by her perpetual nasal cannula to Jason Momoa ending lives), Dune's leading star sprang forth like Sergeant Pepper at Lennon's funeral. There was a Mandarin collar. Jet black too, with epaulettes, and the sort of collar pins that are awarded for committing unimaginable atrocities. The fit was close, but not tight. The silhouette was broad and flattering. And, for a sci-fi, he looked pretty great, to be honest.
Because it wasn't so far from the stuff entering Earth's current orbit. Dior's recent procession of space age Yellow Submariners could well outfit Chalamet's gang (post-spice sesh). It was all Parma Violet purples and intergalactic military jackets. Over at Burberry, creative director Riccardo Tisci's special ops take on the house's signature trench looked remarkably similar to the costumes of Chalamet and Isaac as they get all serious about father-son relationships in times of perilous intergalactic war. And Celine, now a moody, monochrome homeland for surly teens that are now surly adults with a bit of taste and cash, modernised medieval battle armour for this autumn. Herbert's Dune is a universe in which feudalism achieved space exploration. Its noble houses dress accordingly (and still use swords and shields to stave off gunfire, which makes sense).
This nuanced, thoughtful approach to costume design contrasts with the sci-fi genre at large. While the future is so often bright, and cyberpunky, and interesting, it is not always nice to look at. Nor has it aged well, ironically. The Fifth Element, Luc Besson's 1997 box office smash hit, paraded its stars Bruce Willis and Milla Jovovich in fluoro, spandex-like gear that resulted in something absurdly camp. It is a charge not exactly helped by Gary Oldman's despot-does-Eurovision hair flip. Star Wars, though incomparable in its magnitude and influence, has become the stuff of too many costume parties for too long a time to have IRL parallels. The Alien series never really factored fashion into its worldbuilding. Avatar is all CGI. And Mad Max, as we know, is essentially just Burning Man on Friday night.
Ridley Scott's Blade Runner is perhaps the exception to the rule – and, to a lesser extent, its sequel in 2049 (also directed by Dune's Villeneuve). But that's because classic suits will never die, and transparent raincoats and Harrison Ford (and Ryan Gosling) will never not be cool. In Dune, there's stuff that could actually work beyond fictional space operas. And, though many believe adaptations of Herbert's epic to be cursed with inevitable failure (please don't watch David Lynch's version; life really is too short man), perhaps one curse – that of campy, absurdist sci-fi costume departments – may be lifting as our own menswear hurtles into the near-future.
Not that this near-future is promising. Yes, I'll be living underwater. And no, I won't be able to drink any of it since the billionaires will gamble it all away on the stock market. But in this miserable, post-truth, drug-addled age, at least the suits look good – and if I have to reach far-flung planets to get my own, then please, save a space aboard your billionaire starship for me, Mr Bezos.
