Perfect Days. PG, 125 minutes. Four stars.
Simplicity and lyrical fluidity are hallmarks of the style of the veteran German filmmaker Wim Wenders. This long and languorous character study of a lonely Tokyo man in late middle age is a wonderful return to form for the cinema auteur.
Subscribe now for unlimited access.
or signup to continue reading
Hirayama, a man with a past that he is reticent about, is dignified, retiring and full of goodwill, despite where life has landed him. Koji Yakusho is marvellous in the role.
Hirayama works as a toilet cleaner in an upmarket district, driving there each day from his modest apartment near a tall telco tower on the other side of town. The commute affords time to indulge his love of music. No Spotify for him. His playlist is always in analogue form.
The first cassette tape he pops in the slot is the Animals' classic House of the Rising Sun, an intriguing selection. Other fave artists from his youth include Otis Redding, Van Morrison, Lou Reed (whose Perfect Day features, of course) and Nina Simone. The music makes those routine trips along city expressways a deep pleasure.
As a master of the road movie and one of its early exponents during the 1970s and 1980s, Wenders has a wonderful way of combining the rhythms of road travel with a memorable soundtrack.
Back at Hirayama's apartment there's plenty of bedtime reading too, without a Kindle in sight. The southern gothic novels of William Faulkner and crime fiction of Patricia Highsmith are current favourites.
In another corner of his apartment, there is an indexed collection of printed photographs, taken with his little old Olympus camera over lunch. How antique a relatively recent but superseded technology can look these days.
On the balcony, a collection of potted plants, little Japanese maples at various stages of development, are doing well. Sourced from parks and whisked away from mowers, they have a better chance of survival.
Going about his working day he is disciplined and meticulous, in contrast to his young assistant Takashi (an overdrawn performance from Tokio Emoto), who arrives at work late and pays more attention to his cell phone than cleaning. As we follow Hirayama's routine inside the cubicle, it's clear that great attention to detail is a requirement of the job. He politely steps aside, allowing clients busting for a pee to interrupt his work as they rush in or hurry out, knocking over his sign. It looks out of place in the distracted, rushed urban world that hurtles around him.
Another observation is that Japanese toilet block design can be something to behold. I was particularly taken by the one with transparent coloured glass that turns opaque the instant someone enters and locks the door.
Hirayama has a nod for strangers, like a young woman who has lunch near him in the park. She rewards his courtesy with suspicion, but the homeless man who does tai chi waves to him. A woman who runs a bar he visits seems to have something for him, though his modesty or his reticence hold him back.
Unexpected connections can, however, represent a threat to his sense of well-being. A girl whom Takashi fancies, but who doesn't reciprocate, Aya (Aoi Yamada) plants an innocent kiss of thanks on Hirayama's cheek for letting her listen to something particular on a cassette. Then a young niece shows up at his apartment, spending a few nights there while on the run from home and her mother, Hirayama's estranged sister. And then, the former husband of the woman at the local bar he fancies shows up and shares his pain.
It may sound gloomy, but it isn't. The game of noughts and crosses with an invisible client is a sweet, winsome touch. And there are others.
The dignity and beauty of everyday life is reflected in this story of a simple life that values fleeting moments, like the ineffable, fleeting beauty captured in a photograph. Drawing attention to this komorebi, the shimmering light between leaves and sky in the treetops, Wenders has really captured something here.
