TOGLIATTI, Russia — Ladas are the family cars that Russians love to hate.

Loathed as outmoded rattletraps, they have long inspired more punch lines than passion: How many people does it take to drive a Lada? Four; one to steer and three to push.

Conversely, Russians cherish Ladas as the last major Soviet car brand still produced from scratch. Of the estimated 40 million cars in Russia, more than one-third are Ladas, and the Granta, a small sedan, outsells every other car.

Yet they are endangered. The company's market share diminished steadily after the Soviet Union collapsed, dropping to 17 percent from 70 percent. Long before the recent oil price collapse pummeled Russia's economy, the Kremlin decided Lada needed rescuing.

Bo Inge Andersson, company president, during a management meeting on the shop floor in Togliatti.

It recruited Bo Inge Andersson, a blunt Swedish-American executive with long experience in Detroit, to overhaul Avtovaz, Lada's corporate parent and a signature Russian industrial company.

"The biggest focus for us is to bring back the pride in Lada," Mr. Andersson, 59, said during what seemed like a speed-walking race here through one of the world's largest auto plants.

President Vladimir V. Putin has repeatedly said this month that Western sanctions mean Russia has to go it alone. So resurrecting Avtovaz is a parable for changes needed by all Russian manufacturing. It is not quite "As Avtovaz goes, so goes the nation," but close.

"It is a problem that the entire country faces," said Aleksey Y. Buzinny, deputy mayor of Togliatti, a city of 719,000 that earns one-quarter of its taxes via the factory. "We are very good at selling raw materials; we are not so good at producing and selling quality finished goods. We grew a little too complacent when oil and gas prices soared, why care about anything else?"

The production line.

After Mr. Andersson arrived last January, Togliatti, the most famous Russian car town, lauded his hands-on approach. A former army major, he inspected the factory toilets. He dressed managers in gray "Andersson jackets," meant to inspire teamwork. He introduced himself to workers.

He pioneered novel concepts like customer service. A dealer survey found the standard response to complaints had long been, "What do you expect, it's a Lada?" Mr. Andersson said. He hired a company to scan social media for negative comments and the new customer service department responded.

"He is a tough guy, but quite open," said Yuri K. Tselikov, 74, a retired Avtovaz worker and local gadfly. "He fought for cleanliness everywhere."

Grudging respect soured into resentment after Mr. Andersson cut 20 percent of the work force — about 13,400 jobs — revamped manufacturing methods and initiated a showdown with Russian parts suppliers that interrupted production. His methods generated suspicion. "He wants to gradually squeeze Lada out of the market," Mr. Tselikov said.

Yuri K. Tselikov, 74, a retired autoworker and critic who says Mr. Andersson "wants to gradually squeeze Lada out of the market."

Mr. Andersson also eliminated the automatic annual raise, instead trying to combat chronic, 10 percent absenteeism by awarding an extra month's pay to the 4,397 workers with perfect attendance.

"Togliatti seems to be the last piece of Russia that is still a piece of the Soviet Union," he said, noting repeatedly that the concept of profit and loss was alien. The first Lada, built in 1970, was a joint venture with Fiat — an even more spartan version of the bare-bones Fiat 124. Russia named the town after Palmiro Togliatti, the longtime Italian Communist Party leader.

Residents are still discussing web reports published months ago that listed Mr. Andersson's salary among the highest in Russia at $10 million in rubles annually. That is a yawning gap with the average 26,000 rubles or $441 workers earn each month. (The ruble has lost some 45 percent of its value against the dollar this year.)

Mr. Andersson did not want his salary published. But he shared one paycheck stub that showed far less than the reported amount and was certainly modest by Detroit standards. His contract's profit-sharing clause, however, could bring a significant payout, he said.

Models, balloons and strings at the launching in Togliatti last month of a new 1.8-liter engine for the Lada Priora, a compact.

Some in Togliatti now deride him as a carpetbagger, an undertaker and "Hans Christian Andersen," the Danish spinner of fairy tales.

Mr. Andersson monitors the criticism, but said that the government, including President Putin in person, endorsed his plan. The town fathers, the official union and some workers support him as well. He also has two bodyguards.

This is not the first effort to fundamentally alter Lada. The previous attempt, after the 2008 financial crisis, ended the Soviet-era, cradle-to-grave welfare system whereby the factory staffed hospitals and schools and provided apartments. Street protests halted any further cutbacks — the Kremlin evidently fearful about unrest spreading elsewhere.

Piotr A. Zolotaryov, head of a 300-member independent union, called the current tension a classic worker-management dispute over job security and wages. Many also resent that Mr. Andersson is foreign, he acknowledged in an interview at the union offices.

Russians tend to recall every historical slight, and on cue a union member nearby groused, "He seeks to avenge the Battle of Poltava!" — when Russian forces crushed an attempt by King Charles XII of Sweden to conquer Moscow in 1709.

Street demonstrations this time fizzled. Given the economy, people are worried about survival, Mr. Zolotaryov said.

Mr. Andersson's task could hardly have come at a worse moment as relations between Russia and the West have suffered their sharpest deterioration since the Cold War and the economy foundered. Small car sales sank this year, while luxury imports recently surged as wealthy Russians tried to salvage any value from the collapsing ruble.

Mr. Andersson began his car career at Saab, then moved to Detroit in 1993, rising to vice president for purchasing at General Motors, with an annual $125 billion budget. He became an American citizen in 2008.

After G.M. emerged from its financial crisis, Mr. Andersson decided nothing bigger lay ahead in America. He accepted an offer from a Russian oligarch, Oleg Deripaska, to rebuild Avtogaz, Russia's largest manufacturer of light commercial vehicles, headquartered in Nizhny Novgorod.

On June 19, 2009, he was in Detroit. On June 20, he started work in Nizhny Novgorod.

Mr. Andersson dismissed 50,000 workers, introduced new vehicles and forged joint assembly ventures with Volkswagen, G.M., Skoda and Daimler. The company, after losing $1 billion in 2008, became profitable. He got a profit-sharing clause there, too.

The Russian government recruited him to run Avtovaz, which lost more than $500 million last year, Mr. Andersson said. Renault-Nissan and the government jointly own almost 75 percent of Avtovaz, with the remaining shares public.

It was a big switch. Nizhny Novgorod is a large, historic, university city. Togliatti is a flat landscape of squat apartment blocks, relieved only by an 11-mile stretch of the Volga River.

Mr. Andersson gathers his Russian, French and Japanese managers on the factory floor every morning at 6:45, 15 minutes before the workers. The plant, covering 1,630 acres, includes five car production lines and six component factories, churning out 11 car models.

Production charts indicate that quality has improved, but remains uneven. Mr. Andersson grilled his executives about complaints found on the web, like noisy gearboxes. (Top Gear, the British TV show, once compared the Lada transmission sound to a tin tray full of teacups and called the brand "the lowest form of motoring life.") He forced all company executives to drive Ladas.

As he strides through any workshop, his eyes sweep the floor, and his entourage cringes whenever he reaches down. At one point on the tour he tossed a loose metal ring at a manager.

"Managers don't like it because they felt like he was embarrassing them in front of the workers," Mr. Tselikov said.

Productivity doubled this year to 40 vehicles per worker, Mr. Andersson said. His goal is 60. Lada model changes so far have been "lipstick on a pig," he said, but a new, Russian-designed car line is due next fall.

Mr. Andersson described his "last battle" as pushing component producers, some government-owned, to deliver quality parts on time at competitive prices.

In Togliatti, views about the factory tend to split along generational lines. The older generation misses the paternal factory and the days when Russians happily bought any car they could find. Residents born after the Soviet Union's 1991 collapse want modern, reliable and affordable Ladas.

Mr. Andersson's real last battle might be changing Russian perceptions.

A few years ago, a bittersweet song about the original Lada said it took a "real man" to drive one. The lyrics cataloged its shortcomings, saying no driver bothers with the blinkers, for example, because he "never really knows where his car will turn."

Throughout the video, the camera focused periodically on a typically Russian man seemingly highway cruising, but as the camera pulled back, it revealed that the car was actually moving atop a tow truck.

Nikolai Khalip contributed reporting from Togliatti, and Alexandra Odynova from Moscow.