The documentary “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” opening at the Tower, is one of those great lost-masterpiece movies, a worthy addition to a cinematic canon that includes Terry Gilliam’s “Lost in La Mancha,” about his failed attempt to make “Don Quixote” and “It’s All True,” about Orson Welles’ misbegotten South America project of the same name.
With “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” filmmaker Frank Pavich makes an impassioned and relatively convincing case that the film in question – an adaptation of Frank Herbert’s science-fiction novel by the avant garde Chilean director Alejandro Jodorowsky – might be the greatest movie never made.
In 1975, having created controversy with his films “Fando y Lis” and “El Topo,” Jodorowsky threw himself headlong into making “Dune,” fired by messianic passion, unbridled energy and a vision for cinema that, along with the psychedelics being ingested at the time, he hoped would change mass consciousness forever. He set about assembling a team of “spiritual warriors”: artists and special-effect experts who could not only bring his hallucinatory visions to life, but also comprehend his larger, more transcendental purpose. “I wanted to make something sacred, free, with new perspective,” Jodorowsky recalls in the film.
Unlike its subject, “Jodorowsky’s Dune” is surprisingly conventional as a documentary; it resorts to a wearying number of talking heads to relate a story that turns out to be as cautionary as it is compelling. None of the film’s narrators is as captivating as Jodorowsky himself, who at 85 still exudes youthful, contagious exuberance and undaunted belief. Part of his appeal is his clear ability, at least in retrospect, to create his own luck: No sooner would he decide on someone perfect for a role than that figure would appear in his own life – whether it was Mick Jagger making a beeline for the director from across a crowded room, Salvador Dali leading him on a bizarre goose chase involving an escalating series of eccentric demands, or the great man Welles himself dining at a fine Paris restaurant.
These almost-making-of yarns are exceedingly entertaining, and “Jodorowsky’s Dune” comes even more vividly to life when Pavich animates the filmmaker’s enormous, elaborate storyboard for the film, drawn by the legendary French cartoonist Jean Giraud, known as Moebius. Their extraordinary, almost telepathic collaboration is one of the most touching elements of “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” as is the figure of effects technician Dan O'Bannon, whose contribution to the project rippled throughout the sci-fi genre.
Jodorowsky’s “Dune,” of course, never got made – a piece of movie history treated here as the travesty of a misunderstood artist ill-treated by Hollywood. Seen through another lens, however, the director and his producer, Michel Seydoux, could just as easily be accused of fatally misunderstanding a place where cinema is not just an art form but an industrial practice. (As Jack Nicholson said in the 2012 documentary “Corman’s World”: “If you don’t understand money in the movie business, it’s like an artist who doesn’t understand paint.”)
Still, “Jodorowsky’s Dune” is a deeply moving testament to single-minded, indefatigable commitment of creative vision and to an almost spiritual ability to let that vision go, thereby allowing it to exist in the world in an entirely unexpected form. In the case of Jodorowsky, elements of his “Dune” can be found in any number of movies – from “Star Wars” to “Alien,” which O’Bannon wrote – that changed movie grammar forever. As Jodorowsky himself reflects philosophically, “Things come, you say yes. Things go away, you say yes.” As “Jodorowsky’s Dune” makes clear, when some things come back, you say yes then, too.