There is an old adage in filmmaking that says we should focus on a character’s very best, or more often their very worst days possible in a script. Every great film does just this, exploring only a small portion of an otherwise boring life. The Kim family of Parasite surely had many non-noteworthy days before their violent end, we have no reason to see the early life of characters like Interstellar’s Cooper or Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, and anything before jazz school for Andrew in Whiplash would be meaningless. We only care about the action. The intrigue, the heat of the moment, the very best and very worst, that is what we want to watch. We want to see the suffering, the jubilation, the redemption and the outpouring of emotion. There is, however, a remarkable beauty hidden beneath the mundane. The self extends far beyond the front-page headline, and exploring these back pages of the psyche, the hidden moments that aren’t meant to be highlighted, can provide emotions we didn’t even know were there. Wim Wenders does just that in his 2023 film Perfect Days, where we follow the simple life of a Tokyo toilet cleaner.
Perfect Days does have a narrative direction, though slightly wayward in its discovery. My exploration of the film here is not aimed at summarizing that throughline, or even analyzing the connections between individual scenes - rather, unlike my typical style of analysis, I want to tackle those moments between. The seconds and minutes that are not remembered, the little sparks of wavering unconsciousness that color and texture the days of minutiae, that is what makes this film so gorgeous. For that reason, there is no chronology to the scenes presented here, only appreciation of their placement. Hirayama, our protagonist, is not a hero - just a toilet cleaner. He does not have a showstopping life with peaks and valleys of emotional turmoil that drag us to the intrigue. But, maybe more than any recent film, Perfect Days highlights the average. A simple life of routine can be beautiful when reflected upon, and this film stands out as a cinematic masterpiece for that exact reason.
The Light Through the Trees
The life of a toilet cleaner is not one of luxury - Hirayama shows up every day to a new public restroom, wearing his same blue coveralls, ready to sanitize whatever filth the public has left for him. We rarely see disdain at this fate, or any sort of regret on his path on life, only appreciation of the intermittent present. The prime example of this is his lunchtime ritual, consisting of a bench in the woods, a cold cut sandwich, and photography of the komorebi, the untranslated Japanese word for sunlight coming through the trees. Throughout the film, we see visions of these photographs; black, white, and undeveloped collages of fleeting moments.
The visuals are evidently gorgeous, but even more so is the emotions that this simple daily routine evokes. In a life so mundane, in a job so undesirable (at least by modern Western standards), there is just so much beauty in the simple joys that come in between. Hirayama is endeared to us immediately from this simplicity, and Wenders manages to create an inexplicable envy buried within metaphorical squalor that is simply profound. There is so much to enjoy in the concrete jungle, so many little respites of natural healing buried within modernity that we ignore through the first-world lens of constant upward motion that Perfect Days highlights just so perfectly. Who are we to complain about our jobs, about our finances, and about our inconveniences? In no way am I saying that we should always consider the smaller fish, but certainly there is solace to be taken in prescient acceptance of ambience - finding a smile in the dark. This is a careful line to tread, and Wenders is not saying that we should all stop complaining about first-world problems, but he is insisting something more nuanced: the least we can do is stop comparing, stop worrying about the mobility of what could be, and just find time to appreciate.
Totemic Wisdom
At nights, Hirayama continues this life of ritual through his books, which he reads every night before going to sleep. Translated classics like William Faulkner’s “The Wild Palms” and Patricia Highsmith’s “Eleven” give color to the close of an endless line of indistinguishable days, texturing the beautiful dream sequences we see between each one. In passing, we see Hirayama’s visits to the local bookstore to find his next adventure, and are gifted with conversations of interpretation between him and the librarian - personal opinions, shortsighted analysis, this is what drives the beauty of art. Hirayama lets his imagination run wild with colorful imagery that are created uniquely by him. The solitude of his career, the loneliness of his nights, these might be faults for a social butterfly but they let our protagonist enjoy the infinite layers of his books, finding his own versions as so many others have. How he sees the messages and narratives of these works of fiction is wildly different than the local librarian, and learning those differences, seeing truly into the kaleidoscope, that is the point of it all.
In many ways, I see film in the same manner - everything I get out of this film, and every other that I expand upon here, is my own interpretation. It is the isolation of my own viewing that paints the picture, and the tints and hues of my life experiences give each one their own special meaning. The Worst Person in the World lands for me in a way entirely unique that might seem unintelligible for others. Whiplash is a film that seems built just for me in an overwhelmingly emotional way, while someone without any academic jazz background might see it is as a thrilling journey. Even this film, Perfect Days, has that same effect. What I take out of this is my own, and what Wenders provided is something entirely different from him. I should be clear that this is far from a criticism, it is entirely the reason we watch - what would the point of this forum be, what would the point of film as a medium be if not to discuss, to disagree, to share insights? Hirayama too, finds enjoyment in this simple act, in placing his own mind’s eye onto a story that so many others have revised. Like an instrument or a fingerprint, our imagination is uniquely our own: no drum, no piano and no trumpet will sound exactly the same, and hearing version after version of the same song will never provide the same result. For Hirayama’s books, and for this movie, it is all the same.
Action at a Distance
Even while at work, Hirayama finds enjoyment in the routine by its very nature. The precision, the monotony, the care for detail that he has is unmatched. It is a pride that no one recognizes - who cares who sparkly the restroom floor is? But it is one that is entirely personally empowering. The thoroughness and punctuality is what makes him appreciate his work, always being his best. This job is not entirely isolated, though - he has a young assistant, Takashi, who takes far less pride in his work, and there are occasional run-ins with toilet-seekers who interrupt the cleaning process. One of these interruptions makes up one the film’s many connective narrative threads, as Hirayama finds a piece of used paper adorned with a tic-tac-toe grid on it while cleaning a mirror. Throughout the story, we revisit the ongoing game with a stranger, an “opponent” that we never see, hear, or meet. It is a simple divergence from the peaceful routine, and not out of desperation or even rebellion, but just because it is fun. It is fun to take a moment to go off script, to interact with another soul in a way so innocent that everything else fades away. The filth, the squalor, all of it is gone for a second as Hirayama smiles each week at his opponent’s latest move, and he gives himself a mere moment to smile.
I keep insisting on this point, the idea that finding a smile in the day is important, and I assure that it is not for surface-level reasons. Perfect Days makes no effort to disregard the hardships of life, or even minimize the situation of any individual without context. But the joy we see, the optimism that Hirayama displays, is overwhelmingly inspiring in a strange way that is neither pretentious nor modest. It is, more than anything, just part of his life. He does not think too hard about the future, he does not linger too long on the past, he just enjoys his present - sometimes he hates his job and sometimes he loves it, but each day is a new one no matter what. A new day to be detailed, a new day to be the best, a new day to make his move in tic-tac-toe. This is what is fun, this is why he does it, to experience the joy in oddity and the chuckle at the absurd. Laughing in the face of circumstance of all kind, smiling because today is today, it is a remarkably stirring motive that Wenders pitches, and it is what makes this story work.
Life as a Marionette
Of course, these blended days can not all be ones of routine. Life has a mystical way of changing our paths, of adding obstacles and detours to whatever we think each morning has given us. For Hirayama, this exists in the form of his aforementioned assistant, Takashi. The young cleaner is nothing if not the very antithesis of our protagonist - disorganized, routinely late, and without pride or care for any display of skill or ability for his job. While Hirayama takes his bulky, Tokyo-Toilet blue van to work each day, Takashi blazes in on his beat up motorbike. Hirayama takes care to not disturb the environment, to let sleeping dogs lie as it were, while Takashi makes sure his presence is felt and heard in every public toilet he is assigned to. Their paths are different but cross, as ours all do, in these momentary lapses. The toilet-cleaning shift has brought together two of Tokyo’s most different men, but the intersection does not stop there: fate has promised them more intrigue.
As a young blonde woman approaches Takashi at work, the image of pre-modern chic with a doll-like haircut and bright pink jacket, he rushes to finish cleaning. The woman, Aya, is the apple of Takashi’s eye, he must impress her today, only… his bike won’t start. He begs Hirayama to borrow the van, and reluctantly our toilet-cleaning master accepts, but obviously must tag along to supervise. The rag-tag trio proceeds to tool around walled city shops and back alleys that this van was never meant to be in, all in a ego-induced trip for the brash assistant. Hirayama is dragged, like a puppet, through a filth of another flavor, finding a similar shine in the dark side of the moon. The routine of our film, the monotony of its story are broken up by this comedic imagery, presenting us with a literal clown car. There is no real conclusion to the relationship of the three, or closure in their night, but there is further chiseling to the ever-changing sculpture of self. Hirayama meets people, has conversations that he would never normally have, adding another layer of texture to the life we thought was so boring. It is a remarkably surface-level tangent, full of anthological quirks, but that is what makes life so fun. The passing oddities, the minute absurdities of each day, it is why we live! Seeing a street performer, hearing a new song or trying a new drink, watching the hilarity of a rat dragging a slice of pizza on a train or seeing a Speedway gas station with its neon “S” removed from the sign, this is what gives our days joy. Hirayama sees this joy in his routine, in his precision, but through Takashi, he can see it in the randomness as well.
Black, White, and Gray
For all the beauty in the small that we get out of Perfect Days, it brings the poignance to a new level with its closing sequence. Much of the events of the film are entirely inconsequential in a macroscopic sense, giving small changes to a routine that we expect has been the same, and will remain the same, far beyond the bounds of the film. The relationships that are present, for the most part, are transient: Takashi will come and go, the sporadic toilet visitors the same, and only when we get to see Hirayama at his most raw does the steady stage emerge. The primary example of this is his visits to a local restaurant at which he is a regular, where there is a clear, though distant, romantic haze surrounding his view of the owner/bartender. He visits her routinely, gives her both greetings and time, but his daydream is just that. The fiction is shattered when he witnesses another man embracing his dream girl, causing Hirayama to just as quickly fade into vice. He purchases three canned Highballs and a pack of cigarettes, taking them to the picturesquely noir Tokyo riverbank to wash away his sorrow.
He learns, through approach, that the man he saw at the restaurant is proprietor’s ex-husband, lost in contact for seven years. The embrace was sparked as a personal peace-making effort - the man is days from death caused by a terminal cancer. Hirayama, in the only way he knows how, lightens the mood of the night. He offers the man a drink and a cigarette, letting everything wash away in simple conversation. The two stand up in their quick inebriation and engage in a game of shadow tag, slowly chasing each other around as everything else disappears. The romance and daydreams, the mortality and visceral envy, it is all gone in the moment. Their shadows chase one another over, under, and around, dancing in an entangled intimacy that is beyond any societal construction. The connection between us all, the human bond, will always transcend - there are good days, bad days, heck, even perfect ones, but there will are only so many. We have to embrace the suckiness, value the beauty, and over it all appreciate one another. Hirayama is far from unflawed, and we only get a small glimpse into his world, but the takeaway is profound: it is not just his world. It is Takashi’s, it is Aya’s, it is the restaurant owner’s and her ex-husband’s. It is the world of toilets, of sandwiches and old translated books, the world of dirty toilets, tic-tac-toe and canned Highballs. Passing glances, perfecting a craft and taking the detours, these are the lifeblood of society’s pumping heart. Everything is connected, it all matters, and recognizing these tiny little variations in our lives of monotony, and recognizing them for their absurd beauty, that is how we find true nirvana.