Great Britain

During that superstitious era which historians have perversely dubbed the Age of Reason, the Count of Saint Germain declared himself to be the Wandering Jew and claimed to possess the Elixir of Life and the Philosopher's Stone. It was this man who divulged to Countess Ravenskaya the secret of the three winning cards, a certain passport to success at the gaming tables. In a gambling-mad St Petersburg, where vast fortunes change hands nightly on the turn of a card, the penniless Captain Suvorin determines to wrest this secret from the Countess by hook or by crook. By exposing the innocence of her young companion, Suvorin finally seems to have achieved in the end - but unkind fate has a trick or two in store, and of a terrifying nature indeed. For in this triumphant version of Pushkin's celebrated novella, the film's director has pulled off strokes as frightening as anything achieved by even the old master Hitchcock himself. The electrifying scene when Suvorin approaches the coffin of his victim to pay his last respects, and the drawn out drama of the climactic card-games, are surely among the most unforgettably chilling moments in all cinema. Thorold Dickinson, distinguished director of that other remarkable period drama Gaslight, is splendidly served by his costume designer (Oliver Messel) and art director (William Kellner) in this vivid depiction of the splendour, dissipation and debauchery of life in the heyday of the Tsars. The cast is exceptional - Anton Walbrook eaten up by self-justifying greed as Suvorin, Yvonne Mitchell all doe-eyes and trembling innocence as the lovely heroine and above all the superb Edith Evans as the Countess, dozing in her box at the opera, outrageously bullying her servants and aged beaux alike, crotchety, querulous and so terribly knowing-triumphing even in death. Stylistically reminiscent of the early German cinema, with a rare sophistication and elegance, The Queen of Spades (1948) ranks as a great achievement in the history of British cinema.