The first thing you feel is the rhythm: the line’s relentless clatter, the stopwatch tyranny, the sense that your nerves have been put on piecework. Petri doesn’t argue his politics — he makes you breathe them.
Lulù Massa starts out as the factory’s star turn, chasing bonuses like they’re oxygen. He’s proud, competitive, almost flirtatious with the machine. Then the machine takes payment — a finger — and the swagger drains away. What follows isn’t a clean awakening so much as a wobble: anger, fear, self-interest, and the occasional burst of clarity, all jostling for space.
Meanwhile, everyone wants to claim him. Management leans on him, the unions want him in line, the student agitators want a symbol. The megaphones become the film’s metronome, speeches turning into background noise you can’t switch off.
Gian Maria Volonté plays Lulù like exposed wiring: manic speed, sudden stutters, panic in the eyes. Morricone’s score nags and loops like an anxious pulse. And when Lulù lists himself as parts — bolt, belt, pump — it lands as the bleakest punchline imaginable. Bruising, funny, and uncomfortably alive.
This film covers the life of an angry factory worker, chronicling his run-ins with both his colleagues and bosses. There's consistent shouting throughout the film which gets tiring, and any story was lost as we both nodded off during this film.
It's a struggle portrayed in the film, and also to remain watching it.
We backed out of it near to the end as we'd had enough, and switched to something easier to watch.