Even before Denis Villeneuve's big-screen, two-part 2021 film introduced it to moviegoers who had missed David Lynch's enjoyably bonkers 1984 adaptation, Frank Herbert's "Dune" had become exploited IP.

Herbert completed six novels before his death in 1986; 17 more have been written by his son Brian and Kevin Anderson. But it was the Villeneuve film that launched the brand into the franchise-mad universe of 21st century show business, where any well-performing work of sci-fi or fantasy — and "Dune" is both — is practically required to breed a network of sequels spinoffs and merchandise (Lego Atreides Royal Ornithopter, $164.99; Funko Pop! Paul Atreides, $11.99).

If you're not familiar with the films or the books, the new HBO series, which premiered Sunday, will not do you the favor of supplying much context. It does take place 10,000 years earlier, yet in most respects, life in this far-flung network of planets seems to have changed little in 100 centuries. On either side of that temporal divide, we're in an essentially feudal society of royal houses and hereditary emperors, clothed in the medieval trappings that have ruled science-fiction fantasy from "Flash Gordon" to "Star Wars" and beyond.

Spice, a super-duper special element that has mind-altering, mind-enhancing powers and is the key to space travel, is already the most valued substance in the universe and is at the bottom of what drives the story's antagonisms, skulduggery and power plays. It's "Game of Thrones," with spaceships and sandworms.

The main, and most interesting characters, not to say the star power, in this space opera are Valya Harkonnen, played by Emily Watson, and her sister Tula, played by Olivia Williams. The Harkonnens (the bad guys in "Dune," or maybe just the worse guys) are, in this era, a disgraced house, banished to a far off, snowbound planet because great-grandpa deserted in the war against the "thinking machines." (I do appreciate the anti-AI stance.)

In what counts as the present day — there is an earlier timeline in which young Valya is played by Jessica Barden and Tula by Emma Canning — the sisters have lifted themselves to positions of influence by way of the newish Sisterhood, later the Bene Gesserit; they're nuns, basically, who have learned to bend minds. Such supernatural activity is accompanied by extreme close-ups of an eye, occasioning thoughts of Sauron, and sometimes an unintelligible voice that occasions thoughts of the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic."

Valya has become the Mother Superior, Tula a Reverend Mother. The two don't agree on everything, or many things. Valya, a by-any-means-necessary, push-ahead sort, is continuing the late founder's plan to use a "genetic archive" to implement a long-term plan to breed "better leaders" — which is to say, "leaders we can control." (The name for this is eugenics, and it is a bad thing that imagines it's a good one.) Tula, the more sensitive sister, reckons the human cost of their multiple machinations.

The little sisters of the Sisterhood — the novices are an appealing, heterogeneous lot when they get a little screen time — are being trained as "truthsayers," provided to the heads of different houses to act as human lie detectors. There's also, per the title, a prophecy, a deathbed vision by Valya's predecessor of an apocalyptic "red dust" storm that will wipe out … something. The order, or maybe everything? Prophesies are, of course, endemic to these sorts of stories, but they are a poor basis for governance and rarely do anyone any good. Just ask Oedipus, or Macbeth.

Mark Strong plays Emperor Javicco Corrino, ruler of the "known universe," who is busy completing the arranged marriage of his daughter, Princess Ynez (Sarah-Sofie Boussnina) to a 9-year-old princeling from another house, which will earn him a dowry of rocket ships he can use to destroy the Fremen. (Ynez is also, confusingly, going off to train with the Sisterhood.) The Fremen, whose home planet is Arrakis, where Spice is mined, bedevil the miners and the troops that protect them and, as the indigenous population battling imperial usurpers, are the faction you should root for. I can't say whether they'll make an actual appearance in "Prophecy" — only four episodes of six were made available to review — but they'll still be fighting this fight 10,000 years hence, when it becomes the main business of the original "Dune," and you can catch them there.

Attaching himself to Corrino is Desmond Hart (Travis Fimmel), the sole and miraculous survivor from a campaign on Arrakis — the Iraq war of "Dune" — who has gained special powers that make him dangerous to cross, like Billy Mumy sending people to the cornfield in that "Twilight Zone" episode. He's one of those sci-fi characters whose normal Earthman name distinguishes him as a plebe among patricians. Which does not mean he's not a horrible, fanatical person. Other male characters include Ynez's half-brother Constantine (Josh Heuston), with whom she does drugs on the night before her wedding; the Harkonnens' cousin Harrow (Edward Davis), who has some whale fur he'd like to sell you; and Corrino's "swordmaster" Keiran Atreidas (Chris Mason), who fences and flirts with Ynez. Ten thousand years later, Paul Atreides will become the messianic hero of "Dune."

Sisterhood is powerful. In a nice change from recent Earth history, women are the series' defining force, before and behind the camera. Diane Ademu-John developed the series; Alison Schapker is its showrunner, Anna Foerster the primary director. Its many female characters — so many, good, bad and mostly in between — not only demonstrate power, but, so you don't miss the point, talk about it. Along with the Harkonnen sisters and their young trainees, who are not shy about expressing an opinion, there are Ynez, who is no pushover, and her mother, Empress Natalya (Jodhi May), who tells her emperor husband, "There was a time when you took my views seriously and the Imperium was stronger for it." She seems ready to make herself heard again.

The TV series is made in the image of the Villeneuve film, with downward adjustments for budget and such. In the episodes I've seen, the action takes place largely indoors — it's less "Lawrence of Arrakis" than it is, you know, a premium cable show. Like the movie, whose commercial and critical success suggests people approve, it's pokey and self-serious and almost entirely devoid of humor. There are a few lower-depths, bar-set sequences to change the mood, and some HBO-brand sex scenes that feel imported from a different known universe altogether. But as they involve characters talking about revolution — once again, it's the Rebels vs. the Empire — they don't exactly lighten it.

As is the case with many films in which classically trained actors are called upon to elevate genre material, "Prophecy" comes across as simultaneously grand and silly — which, after all, didn't stop "Star Wars" from taking over the world. (Probably, it helped.). Watson and Williams, respectively aggressive and deceptively passive, attack their roles with commitment. It isn't Shakespeare, but they play it as if it were.

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