.png)
Well, the title song promises hate, murder and revenge so this is clearly a noir-inflected product of the cinematic studio.
In the everlasting twilight of the Hollywood Western’s golden era, I put it like that because this era began in moribund fashion immediately heralding its own demise via cliche, most successfully, we should add, in this vein and wise, few films are as perplexing and paradoxical as Rancho Notorious (1952). Directed by Fritz Lang — the German émigré whose touch transformed shadow into psychology — and starring the enigmatic Marlene Dietrich, the film operates on multiple, often conflicting, German, planes.
Part revenge narrative, part pulp fever dream, part expressionist melodrama, Rancho Notorious (1952) refuses the codes of the traditional Western even as it parades them with grotesque flamboyance. Its visual language is theatrical, its moral universe baroque, and its narrative so compressed with symbolism and thematic self-consciousness that it becomes less a story than an anatomy of myth. At its core, it is a fevered tale of trauma and pursuit, anchored in the illusions of justice and the unspooling madness of memory.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
Lang’s cinema had long been governed by a fatalistic worldview, and in the aftermath of the Holocaust this sensibility could only intensify. The spectre of Nazism looms over Rancho Notorious, as Lang interrogates and repudiates the perilous allure of idealised national myths, whether propagated in Germany or in the United States.
Vern’s profound lack of self-knowledge functions as a diagnostic symptom of the delusions produced by such myths, while his grimly comic succession of erroneous assumptions regarding the identity of Beth’s killer among the inhabitants of Chuck-A-Luck exposes his fundamental incapacity for self-criticism.
.png)
.png)
.png)
The film draws an explicit parallel between fascist and American ideological practices by suggesting that, like the Nazis, McCarthyite America displaces its internal contradictions onto a constructed “Other.” The Nazis scapegoated Jews, and communists as well; the United States, the film implies, substitutes communists as its preferred objects of persecution.
This scapegoating operates as a strategic diversion, obscuring the more unsettling truth of America’s own ideological foundations in myths of enterprise, meritocracy, and financial success.
.png)
.png)
.png)
Chuck-A-Luck itself emerges as a grotesque parody of the American Dream. It embodies the nightmare logic of capitalism, a system that ensnares human lives within a closed circuit of chance and unequal competition while disavowing the structural advantages and disadvantages upon which it depends. Though it presents itself as a realm of fair and open opportunity, its outcomes are rigged in advance, governed by concealed mechanisms of control and exploitation.
One image crystallises this critique with particular force. Altar Keane, clad in lavender, rides triumphantly in an open carriage, while directly behind her sits her Black maid, dressed in black, holding a parasol to shield her mistress from the sun.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
The composition stages domination, racial hierarchy, and economic privilege within a single, devastating frame, rendering visible the social relations that the myths of freedom and prosperity are designed to conceal.
Set in a phantasmal West that looks more like a carnival reconstruction than an historical landscape, the film tells the story of Vern Haskell (Arthur Kennedy), a Wyoming ranch hand propelled into violence by the rape and murder of his fiancée, Beth Forbes (Gloria Henry).
.png)
.png)
.png)
From the moment Beth’s scream tears through the film’s gauzy prelude, the Western mythos is upended. Justice is no longer communal; the posse dissolves into ineffectual decor. Haskell rides alone, into a world of echoes and specters, where vengeance becomes less a goal than an identity.
At the center of this whirlwind, and also at its centre, and its middle, lies the saloon singer turned outlaw hostess, Altar Keane (Marlene Dietrich), whose ranch, “Chuck-a-Luck,” operates as both sanctuary and trap — a mythic locus where criminals rest, gamble, and ultimately self-destruct. The setting is nominally the American West, but Lang’s lens, shaped by the haunted geometries of German expressionism, transforms it into a dreamlike zone of psychological rot. Chuck-a-Luck is a fortress of moral suspension: money flows, alliances shift, and death is only ever a breath away.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
Rancho Notorious (1952) arrived at a precarious moment in American cultural life. The postwar euphoria of the late 1940s had given way to anxiety, conformity, and the brutality of Cold War dogma. The House Un-American Activities Committee had, by 1952, excised dozens of artists from Hollywood’s bloodstream, forcing others into exile or silence.
Among them was Lloyd Gough, who portrays Kinch — the very murderer Vern seeks. Gough’s name, despite his central role in the narrative, does not appear in the credits. He was blacklisted for his refusal to capitulate to HUAC.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
That the film’s entire narrative pivots around an unacknowledged figure — a man who is literally and symbolically erased — only deepens its association with the era’s moral contradictions. Gough’s spectral presence, both seen and unseen, becomes a mirror of Lang’s own obsession with memory and denial.
The irony is unbearable and deliberate. A film about retribution and revelation denies its audience the truth of its own creation. Gough’s omission casts a shadow that stretches across every frame. What happens when truth must go unspoken, when a face becomes detached from its name?
.png)
.png)
.png)
Fritz, Fritz Lang, Herr Doktor Doomframe, Baron von Shadow, Der Meister der Angst, Kaiser of the Close-Up, Graf Expressionismus, the Obergruppenführer of Oblique Angles, Fritz von Focuspull, Lang der Länge, whose M (1931) had already wrestled with these questions, embeds the crisis in the film’s DNA. Rancho Notorious (1952) is not merely about revenge, but about the fragility of recognition — the impossibility of total justice in a world where the past is constantly redacted.
.png)
.png)
At the core of Rancho Notorious (1952) is a meditation on the spectacle of female power and its decay. Altar Keane is a woman whose fame precedes her; everyone recalls her name, though no one can quite say where she’s gone. That fog of half-memory, of notoriety without substance, shapes her performance. Marlene Dietrich, well into middle age at the time of filming, plays Altar not as a faded star but as an enigma in the throes of defiance.
Her voice still commands, her gaze still slices, but the surfaces are cracked. In Dietrich’s performance, Altar becomes an icon embalmed in self-awareness, aware of her power yet exhausted by its cost.
She is not, strictly speaking, a madam — her house is a refuge, not a brothel — yet her enterprise thrives on masculine failure. Outlaws pay a cut of their spoils to rest in her compound. She lives off the margins of crime, without committing it herself. Yet this liminality is damning. When Vern uncovers her connection to Kinch through a diamond brooch — a relic of his fiancée’s final moments — he erupts, not merely in grief but in loathing. His words seethe with moral judgment: she, who merely received a gift, becomes complicit in the original sin.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
This moment crystallizes the film’s troubled vision of femininity. Altar is both victim and scapegoat. Her sexuality — commodified, mythologized — attracts violence, even as she exerts agency. The camera loves her less than it reveres her: not in close-ups, but in tableau, where she is never merely a woman but a site of projection.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
The rape that begins the film is unshown but not unspoken; it becomes the act around which all female presence is judged. Altar, who offers no physical threat, becomes culpable for the man who does. That she ultimately sacrifices herself to save Frenchy is read by the film not as redemption but as closure — the final erasure of the dangerous woman who knew too much and cared too little. Her death is a narrative necessity, a purge that allows the masculine order to restore itself, however uneasily.
.png)
The West, as conjured in Rancho Notorious (1952), is less a landscape than an ideology. Its geography is compressed, more studio set than topography. Painted rocks, fog-drenched hills, and stage-lit saloons reveal the West not as a real place but as a collective hallucination. The characters exist in a loop of betrayal, pursuit, and spectacle.
They do not dream of homesteads or railroads. They crave oblivion. Justice, in this vision, is solitary. Community is a ruse. Vern’s initial posse disappears without notice; the sheriff is a distant functionary. What remains is the isolated man with a gun and a wound.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
This is the America of the early Cold War: distrustful, atomized, addicted to performance. The myth of frontier freedom has collapsed into paranoia. Outlaws do not challenge the system — they fund it. Their loot subsidizes Altar’s operation. It is capitalism stripped of pretense.
Everyone pays to play. Lang’s vision is mercilessly transactional. Even love is a gamble. When Vern flirts with Altar, he does so not out of desire but investigation. His smile is a ruse. Her sighs are currency. The film acknowledges this structure without apology. It sees the West not as it was, but as America remembers it: violent, mythic, false.
.png)
.png)
To describe Rancho Notorious (1952) as merely a Western is to miss its nervous architecture. The revenge motif, the haunted protagonist, the narrative of infiltration and discovery — all echo the conventions of noir. The Chuck-a-Luck hideout is a Western analogue to the noir city: corrupt, dense, claustrophobic. Characters speak in clipped innuendo.
The past bleeds into the present. Violence is not incidental but metaphysical. The killer hides in plain sight. The woman is both temptation and salvation.
.png)
.png)
.png)
Lang’s earlier American work — especially The Big Heat (1953) and Scarlet Street (1945) — laid the template for this style. Rancho Notorious (1952), while dressed in Technicolor and cowboy hats, shares its DNA with those urban nightmares. Hal Mohr’s cinematography emphasizes stark diagonals and shadowed interiors.
The musical montages — particularly those accompanying the ballad “The Legend of Chuck-a-Luck” — disrupt chronology, echoing noir’s obsession with memory and recursion. Even the use of song becomes perverse: what should be explanatory narration becomes ironic refrain. The tune insists on “hate, murder, and revenge,” as though singing the story can neutralize it. Instead, the repetition creates unease. One does not remember the film so much as feel haunted by it.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
Four performances give the film its peculiar pulse. Marlene Dietrich, already legendary for Destry Rides Again (1939), Morocco (1930), and Witness for the Prosecution (1957), delivers a performance that is both a summation and a farewell. Her Altar Keane is not a saloon girl reborn, but a monument to herself: tired, luminous, impenetrable.
Arthur Kennedy, known for his work in Bend of the River (1952), The Man from Laramie (1955), and Boomerang! (1947), offers a protagonist whose righteousness slips into cruelty. His Vern is not a savior but a man undone by grief. Mel Ferrer, previously seen in The Brave Bulls (1951), offers a nuanced, melancholy turn as Frenchy Fairmont. His is the film’s only performance that suggests internality — a man aware of time’s decay, trying to stop it with bravado.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
But it is Lloyd Gough, uncredited and essential, who haunts the frame. As Kinch, he embodies the noir villain stripped of glamour: cowardly, lascivious, and invisible. His omission from the credits is more than an injustice — it is a disavowal.
That he is the one who raped and killed Beth, that he then lives as a guest in Altar’s compound, that he escapes justice through anonymity — all speak to a deeper terror. The evil that men do does not end with their death. It lingers in memory, unless memory itself is corrupted.
.png)
.png)
In its final movement, the film collapses into ritual. Altar is fatally shot. Kinch is killed. The outlaws scatter. Frenchy and Vern — once rivals — ride off together, not in triumph, but in exhaustion. There is no closure, no return to normalcy. The world of Rancho Notorious (1952) offers no homesteads, no children, no future. Its cycles are endless. Its justice, pyrrhic. The final image, like the first, is a kind of song — not the ballad, but the silence that follows a scream.
In this, the film speaks to a larger American pattern: the inability to reconcile founding violence with national myth. The West, imagined here, is not a land of promise, but a graveyard of illusions. Every gunshot is an echo. Every outlaw a reflection. The desire to kill — and be killed — is not about law, but about erasure.
As if by killing Kinch, Vern could restore his fiancée’s innocence, cleanse Altar’s ambiguity, and redeem his own descent. The film knows better. What is lost remains lost. What is killed stays dead. What is remembered, however faintly, is only ever a shadow.
HER RANCH WAS THE STORM CENTER OF THE VIOLENT WEST...
MISTRESS OF THE WORLD'S STRANGEST HIDEOUT!
She runs the West's strangest hideout... a ranch where a guest can hide his crime... quench his thirst... betray a woman... and knife a man in the back... for a price!
Mistress of the West's strangest hideout... a ranch where anything goes! This woman lives... and rules... in a daring way all her own!
Where anything goes...for a price!
Your heading, “Chuck-a-Luck,” is not merely a cute label but an incantation, a hard syllabic talisman that drags the Western into a gaudier, more corrupted register than the genre usually admits in polite company. After the comparatively genteel seduction of Rachel and the Stranger [1948], the BBC’s decision to follow with Fritz Lang’s frontier nightmare feels less like programming and more like an ambush, as if the schedule itself were conspiring to teach you that “charm” is only the prelude to damage.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
You approached Lang as a figure filed under science fiction, film noir, and late adventure, which is a tidy taxonomy and therefore immediately suspicious. The Western is not a holiday from his obsessions but the arena in which those obsessions become vulgar, sunburnt, and unmistakably social, with violence rebranded as civic routine and “law” exposed as a decorative prop.
The story announces its thesis with brute efficiency: Vern Haskell is a ranch hand who believes, with the naïveté of the untested, that peace is a stable arrangement rather than a temporary ceasefire. That belief is smashed when Beth Forbes is killed during a robbery, and the film treats the rupture not as melodrama but as a structural reorientation, a pivot from pastoral fantasy to predatory geography.
What follows is not a quest but a systematic refusal of institutional consolation. The law offers no meaningful response, and Haskell’s withdrawal from official process is not romantic rebellion but a grim acknowledgment that procedure is frequently the enemy of justice, especially when justice would require the community to admit what it tolerates.
The trail is narrowed through betrayal, the Western’s favourite form of bookkeeping. One robber lies dying after being shot by his former associate, and the scene is engineered as a cruel pedagogical moment: dying men do not deliver clarity, they leak fragments, and the fragment here is the name of a game, Chuck-a-Luck, a phrase that behaves like a curse more than a clue.
Chuck-a-Luck is not merely gambling; it is the film’s symbolic machine for converting chance into authority. By making the key to the mystery a game of probability, the narrative declares that the West’s moral order is already a casino, and anyone still expecting ethical arithmetic deserves the humiliation the plot will administer.
.png)
.png)
Haskell’s search leads him to the saloon where the game is staged, and the saloon is presented as the Western’s true courthouse, crowded, performative, and unashamed of its petty tyrannies. There he meets Altar Keane, a figure who does not ask permission to dominate the frame, and the detail that matters is not her glamour but her possession of Forbes’s jewellery, which transforms ornament into evidence and seduction into provocation.
You describe yourself “excitingly” preparing to enter Lang’s “Western metropolis,” and the phrase is apt because the film refuses the myth of open space. Even when the desert is visible, it feels like a backdrop for transaction, and the social world is organized less by horizon lines than by surveillance, rumor, and the coercive circulation of objects.
.png)
Yet Lang and cinematographer Hal Mohr are not defeated so much as forced into a sharper cunning. They find, as you rightly insist, “a saddle” that still carries them into the West with style, and that style is not decorative but diagnostic, because their overlapping images and heavy visual layering import a noir logic into the daylight, staining the genre with suspicion even when the sun is merciless.
This is the film’s central aggression: it does not let the Western remain morally legible. The burning sun dims not meteorologically but narratively, as Haskell advances toward revenge and the world’s contrast hardens, suggesting that clarity is not illumination but corrosion, a bleaching of ethical nuance until only fixation remains.
.png)
Your notes also point to Lang’s “peculiar comedic side,” and this is precisely where lesser viewers become confused and therefore defensive. The comedy, including the piggyback contest in which women ride cowboys like livestock, is not relief but indictment, a carnival that exposes the gendered humiliations already underwriting the social order, then dares the audience to laugh while the film keeps score.
If this sounds like overinterpretation, it is only because the Western has trained audiences to accept brutality but fear analysis. “Je l’affirme sans trembler: ce film n’est pas une distraction, c’est une agression méthodique,” and I am not offering that line as a flourish but as a warning about how relentlessly the picture turns entertainment into complicity.
Marlene Dietrich arrives as both artifact and weapon, and your description of her off-screen “diva” demands is best understood as the continuation of a career-long negotiation with the camera. If she insisted Mohr make her look younger, that insistence becomes part of the film’s meaning, because Altar Keane is a woman whose power is mediated through appearance, and she knows it with the cold intelligence of someone who has survived the marketplace of faces.
.png)
Haskell, by contrast, is a man eroded by a single image, the sight of his dead fiancée, which functions less as memory than as a perpetual order to act. Arthur Kennedy’s achievement, in your account, is that he allows the heroic smile to curdle, turning sweetness into the mask of a loner who is being remade into an outlaw by the sheer repetitiveness of rage.
The film’s structure, repeatedly noted in the reviews you included, is strikingly indirect, and that indirection is not clumsiness but strategy. The early movement from town to town, punctuated by stories told in flashback, makes the West feel like an archive of spoken violence, a continent where truth is always second-hand and always contaminated by whoever narrates it.
This “freshness,” praised by one commentator, is achieved by refusing the straightforward line of pursuit that the genre usually demands. Haskell’s hunt becomes epistemological: he is not merely tracking a body, he is trying to assemble an identity from rumour, objects, and the theatrical self-presentations of criminals who have learned to perform innocence when it suits them.
When Haskell finally reaches the ranch that gives the film its mythic centre, the narrative tightens into a controlled pressure chamber. The ranch is a sanctuary for fugitives that operates on a percentage cut, which is a tidy economic model and therefore horrifying, because it translates criminality into a subscription service and turns moral transgression into predictable revenue.
.png)
The incessant ballad, derided by many and adored by a few, is the film’s most shameless device, and that shamelessness is the point. It chants the theme like an obnoxious conscience, insisting on “hate, murder, and revenge” with such bluntness that it dares you to deny the narrative’s primitive engine, and in doing so it ridicules any viewer who expects subtlety from a culture built on repeated public violence.
One reviewer compares the film to Johnny Guitar [1954], and the comparison is useful insofar as both films weaponize female authority within isolated spaces. But Lang’s approach is less operatic and more punitive: he corrals the characters into a managed environment and then demonstrates, with almost bureaucratic cruelty, how quickly desire becomes leverage and leverage becomes blood.
The gender politics are not accidental embellishments; they are the narrative’s spine. Keane’s rule, her “no questions” ethic, and her ability to keep armed men in line by sheer force of persona reveal a Western world that quietly admits women’s labor and intelligence, then publicly pretends the frontier is a boys-only myth.
The love triangle, whether you find it convincing or absurd, is not there to satisfy romance but to contaminate motive. Haskell cannot remain a pure avenger once he wants something beyond revenge, and Frenchy cannot remain a stable ally once loyalty is forced to compete with desire, because the film understands that masculine codes are strongest when untested and most pathetic when exposed.
Your notes foreground the idea that Haskell “gets his revenge with a game of Chuck-a-Luck,” and that detail is crucial because it completes the film’s moral arithmetic. Revenge is not delivered by heroic duel alone but by submission to the West’s governing ritual of chance, suggesting that the frontier’s ultimate judge is not law, not God, but the spinning wheel that pretends randomness is destiny.
The reviews you supplied fracture into camps that are almost comically predictable. Some call the picture an impressive gem with top-notch direction and kinetic camera movement, others dismiss it as camp, miscast, slow, or visually artificial, and nearly all of them treat the ballad as either poison or perverse charm, which is exactly what the device is designed to provoke.
What matters is that the film refuses consensus, and that refusal is a sign of vitality rather than defect. A Western that everyone agrees about is usually one that has politely complied with the genre’s expectations, whereas Rancho Notorious [1952] behaves like an irritant, scraping at the viewer’s desire for moral comfort.
Even the production anecdotes, including blacklisting implications noted by some commentators, hover like an unspoken political weather system. Whether or not you read the film as a commentary on its era’s ideological purges, it certainly stages a world where names disappear, credit is manipulated, and power operates through erasure, which is a political lesson delivered through show-business mechanics.
The loudest critics complain that Dietrich looks too modern, too heavily made-up, too knowingly “constructed” for the Old West. This complaint is not perceptive; it is frightened, because it accidentally admits the film’s point: the West is not a natural state but an aesthetic regime, and Keane’s visible construction makes the genre’s own fabrication harder to ignore.
Likewise, those who demand sprawling landscapes in the manner of High Noon [1952] or other canonical oaters are begging the film to lie to them in a more comfortable dialect. Lang, instead, confines attention to faces, bargains, and enclosed spaces, producing a Western that feels less like mythic nation-building and more like a forensic study of how communities metabolize violence.
Your own stance is admirably unafraid: you insist on the film’s style, on its noir contamination, on its willingness to be strange, and on Kennedy’s performance as a man whose transformation is not heroic but tragic. “Je me cite encore: ‘le soleil ici n’éclaire rien, il accuse,’” because the film’s daylight is not revelation but prosecution, a bright instrument used to expose ugliness rather than to celebrate freedom.
So the proper way to rewrite these notes is not to soften them into tasteful appreciation, but to sharpen them into a declaration. This film is an argument with the Western, a loud refusal to pretend that vengeance is clean, that institutions protect the vulnerable, or that charisma is separate from coercion, and if a viewer finds that unpleasant, the viewer should feel unpleasant.
.png)
In the end, what you witnessed was not merely a revenge plot but a deliberate descent into a moral economy where every relationship is a negotiation and every negotiation is a threat. The tale of Chuck-a-Luck is therefore not a quaint legend but a thesis screamed into Technicolor: the West is a stage where chance is worshipped, violence is normalized, and even love arrives already compromised by the price of admission.
But ahem, look at this, Cinematographer Hal Mohr, who had previously collaborated with Marlene Dietrich on Destry Rides Again (1939), reportedly sought to withdraw from the production due to Dietrich’s insistence that the lighting render her significantly younger than her fifty years. Mohr maintained that such an effect was technically unachievable within the visual constraints of the production, particularly given the film’s reliance on Technicolor cinematography.
The film’s opening and narrative structure are shaped by the recurring ballad, “The Legend of Chuck-a-Luck,” which functions not merely as incidental music but as a form of lyrical narration. According to the American Film Institute, this represents one of the earliest uses of a song as a sustained narrative device in American cinema, a technique contemporaneously employed in High Noon (1952).
Director Fritz Lang initially intended to retain Chuck-a-Luck as the film’s title. This was overruled by studio head Howard Hughes, who argued that the term would be incomprehensible to non-American audiences. Lang reportedly responded with characteristic irony, noting that the imposed title bore no clearer relation to the film’s content.
At the time of production, Dietrich remained emblematic of Hollywood glamour and sought to preserve her carefully cultivated screen image by applying the lighting principles she had learned under Joseph von Sternberg.
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
.png)
However, Sternberg’s mastery lay in black-and-white cinematography, whereas this production demanded the very different aesthetic and technical demands of Technicolor. Dietrich’s attempts to influence both Lang and the director of photography were largely disregarded, leading to escalating tensions on set. By the final week of filming, relations between Lang and Dietrich had deteriorated to the point of complete non-communication.
Actor Lloyd Gough’s name was removed from the credits as a consequence of his blacklisting during the early 1950s. Industrial pressures further shaped the film’s release history. Contemporary reports in Daily Variety indicate that Twentieth Century-Fox was initially slated to distribute the film, but Fidelity Pictures withdrew from the arrangement after learning that release and payment would be delayed until mid-1952. The film was subsequently sold to RKO in pursuit of a faster return on its approximately $900,000 investment.
.png)
.png)
The depiction of the gambling game chuck-a-luck draws upon earlier games such as Sweat Cloth, Grand Hazard, and Hyronemus. Often known as “Birdcage,” the game traditionally used dice contained within a rotating cage. While photographic evidence of spindle-based mechanisms exists from as early as 1909, there is scholarly debate regarding the historical accuracy of the elaborate wheel depicted in the film.
Although similar devices may have existed in the 1870s, they were likely less ornate. The chuck-a-luck wheel afforded casinos a statistical advantage exceeding twenty percent, an edge that could be further amplified through mechanical manipulation, echoing the systemic corruption of gambling economies depicted in Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep (1939).
Several casting ironies further complicate the film’s historical texture. Arthur Kennedy, despite portraying a younger man, was in fact three years older than Mel Ferrer. William Frawley, meanwhile, appeared in the film shortly before achieving lasting fame as Fred Mertz on I Love Lucy (1951). Dietrich’s character also reprises the name “Frenchy,” a self-referential echo of her role in Destry Rides Again.
.png)
The film’s conclusion further complicates moral resolution under the Code. The closing ballad suggests a degree of poetic justice that is not fully borne out onscreen. Frenchy remains unpunished, and the protagonist Vern, having compromised himself through criminal acts including participation in a bank robbery, nonetheless rides away unscathed. Such an ending, in which morally compromised characters evade retribution, was highly unusual for a Production Code–era film.
.png)
Rancho Notorious (1952)
Directed by Fritz Lang
Genres - Crime, Drama, Western | Sub-Genres - Film Noir, Historical Film, Western Film | Release Date - Apr 18, 1952 | Run Time - 89 min. |
Learn about the game of Chuck-a-luck at Wikipedia where a chucka may bring you lucka?
.png)
.png)
