Rather than the usual approach of trying to bury the literary origins of a work being adapted for the screen, Welles's attention is to the words, allowing them the space to conjure, through almost trancelike incantation, an unearthly realm that sets in motion a play between the hubris of cosmic meddling and the feeling that the cosmos itself is but a stage, we are merely players, etc. etc. In terms of casting, Eshley was rather a weak link, but Moreau suits perfectly.

Welles' most underrated. It's sort of a warm up to F for Fake, where the themes touch on the complexity of fact vs. fiction, but here done in a more subtle manner, with a straightforward narrative.

Sandwiched between Chimes and F For Fake, two lively and inventive films, this is undoubtedly a lesser work, and the performance of Eshley absolutely hurts it; in a minimalist chamber piece, there is less room for error, and he makes plenty of them. Exactly how his dodgy performance managed to occur on Welles' watch is a total mystery, but the film has a real self contained atmosphere that could perhaps uncharitably be labelled as cut price Visconti if it wasn't for its near spectral aura.

This may only be an hour long made for TV film, but it's a masterpiece. Welles is first and foremost a story teller, who during his lifetime effortlessly shifted between radio, stage and film to tell stories. This film is Welles meditating on stories and storytelling as they relate to past, present and future. His celebration of the power of stories. Welles' use of colour (his first film in colour), music, light, angles, depth etc. is such that the viewer cannot help but be beguiled.

Late-era Welles is nothing if not fascinating. Squeezed between Falstaff and F for Fake, two films that utilize Welles' mannered showmanship better (probably due to being Shakespearean and non-fiction, respectively), The Immortal Story almost feels like a late-era Fellini film, filled with hushed tones, overcooked characterizations, a thick environment and the sense of an artist somewhat adrift in his own mythology.

Welles' quietly baroque film does well in creating a sense of the fabular in parts (I like the sailor running alongside the carriage), but it's difficult to make out the overall scheme. It has been offered that this anticipates in part F for Fake, but elements of past films creep in also to create a patchwork effect. Certain scenes, therefore, feel remarkable, but isolated. Criterion has come through once again with a print clear enough to ogle at the prosthetic nose sported by Welles.

It's a strange story, but I mostly don't really connect with Isak Dinesen. Loads of atmosphere, with Welles sporting a distinctive fake nose, of course. Cinema requires movement, so in their first long scene together, rather than staying put and talking, Moreau walks away from Coggio at the end of every other sentence. It's a bit disconcerting, though her weary resentment is perfect for her character. Later we get some of Welles' signature imaginative camera work. Worthwhile.

Welles at his most tender

Welles was enormously fond of the work of Danish author Isak Dinesen, and this adaptation of one of his short stories was his last completed fictional film. It was made primarily for French television), and there's a fairly obvious reduction in the resources he had to work with. It's an asset though. The film has a very theatrical, somewhat dreamlike quality with it's noted lack of extras and scaled down sets.

There are some interestingly framed very close close-ups towards the end, and in general it's very nicely shot (particularly for a television production), but there is just no getting around the fact that Blixen's story is a dud.

A rich old man hears a story and decides to construct it in reality. The film speaks to the nature of storytelling and filmmaking, of bringing a story into being, in which there is a measure of god-like control, of taking away possibility and replacing it with events that occur in reality, of fulfilling prophecy. This, it seems to me, speaks to the potential in story to impact reality, as indeed the conclusion of this film makes abundantly clear.

For 59 minutes, this movie felt much longer than that. There is something very slow and deliberate - sometimes even dull - about the pacing of this film. Norman Eshley's performance in this film actually reminded me a bit of David Bowie's in The Man Who Fell To Earth - which came 8 years after this film. There are really strong themes about real v. fake in this film, but they really aren't well or fully fleshed out.

As a barely hour long French television commission, this might not seem like top-tier Welles, but i found it pretty worthwhile just the same. If nothing else, it's impossible for me not to be won over by his impeccable, baroque mis-en-scene (it really is pretty remarkable how similar late Welles looks to Raul Ruiz's work, only without all the postmodern surrealism of course). But the film also seems of a piece with Welles' career-long interest in the constructed nature of storytelling itself.

This adaptation of a short story about a man staging a legend has all the affectation of mere recital. It is an obvious precursor to themes Welles would mine more creatively in F for Fake, but frankly, it's boring as hell.

Excellent underappreciated Welles story here

A fair bit stagey and mannered, but very interesting nonetheless, and at an hour it doesn't overstay its welcome, telling a very original and intriguing story efficiently and without clutter. It's easy enough to draw somewhat of a parallel here with Welles' own life, but I hesitate to make that comparison because who knows how valid it is?

Undeniably passionate work.

História Imortal tinha sua première na TV francesa há 55 anos (deveria ter estreado nos cinemas também mas os protestos de maio de 68 não deixaram). Gostei mais dessa vez que o assisti do que a anterior, mas não concordo que ele seja uma das melhores coisas do Welles, o diretor nunca fez filme ruim, nem sequer mediano, mas ele tem obras-primas demais para esse estar entre elas. Blu-ray Versátil A Marca da Maldade.