Adapted from the 1990 BBC mini-series, Netflix’s House of Cards leads its viewers into a world of political double-dealings and in-games. But what’s really caught press attention is Netflix’s own clever game. All 13 of the hour-long episodes are immediately available to subscribers, a move that’s inspired a flurry of articles on the perils of binge-watching: it’s easy to see why. This isn’t the kind of show you want to be starting if you’ve got an essay deadline the next day. One programme leads inexorably into the next, and all of a sudden you’re 4 hours in, bleary-eyed, and it’s somehow 2 in the morning.

House of Cards takes its audience behind the scenes at Washington, with the Chief Whip, Frank Underwood, guiding you through the corruption and debauchery that lies beyond the public façade. Underwood speaks directly to his audience, a style inherited from the BBC series, and it is in these moments that Kevin Spacey excels. His Frank Underwood is Shakespeare’s Richard III reinvented for the modern audience: he pulls a string here and another there, then sits back to watch his puppets dance. Each time you think he’s finally plumbed the depths of his depravity, there’s a new low to be discovered. The soliloquising paves the way for satisfying pay-offs: we can tell both when his expectations have been disappointed and when those around him are playing directly into his hands.

Just as the BBC series had its pitfalls, relying on gratuitous extended shots of rats and dead pigeons, this show has its moments of weakness. The show opens, boldly, with Underwood strangling a dog that has been run over, telling his audience ‘Moments like this require someone who will act, who will do the unpleasant thing. The necessary thing.’ Whilst uncomfortable to watch, the scene is excellently pitched and paced, which makes the madman scene in the following episode feel fairly redundant, crudely hammering home a point that has already been made elegantly.

But where Beau Willimon’s House of Cards arguably finds its edge on its BBC forerunner is in its stellar supporting cast. Spacey may be billed as the star of the show, but Robin Wright delivers a stunningly nuanced performance as his wife Claire, and where Francis Underwood resembles Richard III, Claire Underwood channels the Machiavellian Lady Macbeth. Corey Stoll also deserves applause for his portrayal of Peter Russo, a congressman who’s found himself under Underwood’s thumb, and is spiralling out of control. The characterisation is excellent, the story builds satisfyingly over the 13 episodes, and quick-fire consumption means that there’s an attractive continuity between episodes.

Whilst Ian Richardson became iconic for his Francis Urquhart (and the one-liner: ‘you might think that. I couldn’t possibly comment’), Spacey’s Francis Underwood is just as fascinatingly menacing. Beau Willimon’s adaptation is positively oozing with its deadly combination of power-games, sordid sex and stunning betrayals, and with a huge amount of interest and a second series already on the cards, it seems that Netflix has played a royal flush.