Victorio Bondiolli

Victorio Bondiolli pops up in “São Paulo, Sociedade Anônima” (1965), a film that’s basically a love letter and a slap in the face to São Paulo’s industrial boom. The story orbits around Carlos, a dude who’s drifting through his thirties, stuck in a dead-end job at an auto parts factory, just watching the city morph into a concrete jungle. You can feel the claustrophobia—apartments, offices, endless meetings, traffic jams, and this constant hum of machines. It’s all sort of bleak, honestly, but also weirdly hypnotic. Carlos isn’t exactly a hero; he’s more like a lost soul, numb from routine and bored out of his mind, juggling a marriage he’s not into and an affair that isn’t saving him either. The film doesn’t sugarcoat anything—his friends are just as trapped, everyone’s pretending, everyone’s tired. There’s a lot of staring out windows, smoking, pouring coffee, and just... existing. It’s all about alienation, mass production, and what happens when you chase a version of success that doesn’t actually fit. The city itself is a character—always looming, always swallowing people whole. You get these sharp shots of skyscrapers, highways, and factories, and it all feels heavy. No one’s really happy, but no one’s exactly miserable either. It’s this grey area, full of longing and frustration. The movie isn’t trying to fix anything or hand out easy answers. It just lets you sit in the mess, and honestly, that’s what makes it stick with you.