Bergman won her first Oscar as a woman who seems to be losing her mind in a dark old house where her beloved aunt was murdered. She darts her eyes, cowers in the bedroom, and crumbles into a tremulously fragile heap under the austere, unfeeling gaze of her mysterious husband (Boyer, expertly mixing charm and menace), who has married her for something that gleams much brighter than love. It's canny, gothic fun, helped along by Lansbury (in her film debut) as a tarty maid who delights in overstepping boundaries. EXTRAS The 1940 British version with Anton Walbrook and Diana Wynyard is shown in its entirety, which makes for a fascinating comparison. Good as Walbrook is, I'm still with Bergman and Boyer.