Directed by Wim Wenders. Written by Takuma Takasaki and Wim Wenders.
Public bathroom aficionados, 70s rock fans, and existential explorers can point finger guns at each other in mutual excitement over Perfect Days, which celebrates all and, dare I say it, combines for a perfect film of its own.
How we live our lives, find beauty and purpose and achieve equilibrium with life’s riptide is an inexhaustible resource for storytelling, but our penchant for drama usually wins out. Big dilemmas, tragedies, and hardships are how we want to see people find themselves. In overcoming, they arrive, and we can rest assured the rest of their way is paved with contentment. I don’t need to tell you life is nothing like that.
No, most of life is lived a day at a time, and its conflicts, victories, defeats are doled out in increments. It’s in showing up every day we vindicate ourselves, and it’s in the everyday we find the oxygen we need to live: the small moments of beauty, of humor, of camaraderie. These moments are like a spiritual oasis, telling us we’re not alone, and there’s a connection to be had with people, our community, and the splendor that surrounds it. Life’s only as small as you let it be.
Hirayama cleans Tokyo’s bathrooms. Every morning, he awakes to the sound of a neighbor sweeping his street. With little hesitation, he tidies his apartment, waters his plants, dons his jumpsuit, brushes his teeth, and steps out into the day, always taking a breath on his stoop to look skyward with a sense of recognition and satisfaction. He buys a coffee from the vending machine, gets in his van, selects one of the 70s rock cassette tapes he has, and sets out with the sounds of Van Morrison, Lou Reed, or the Velvet Underground for company.
He’s a fastidious man, who carries out his duties with utmost professionalism. Catching every speck of dust, cleaning every cranny, relying on homemade gadgets to make sure nothing isn’t left sparkling. Citizens of Tokyo of course pay him little mind, let alone appreciation, unaware they’re witnessing first-hand a first ballot hall of fame blue collar worker. There’s an inspiring beauty in the ceaseless dedication to doing the best you can, whatever it is you’re doing. In a world hooked on cutting corners, get-rich-quick mentality, and doing the least, Hirayama’s dedication to his own time shines with self-respect.
In the seemingly rote repetition that is the base of Hirayama’s existence, there’s a strange kind of art. Like a continual brush stroke, making the same move on the same part of the canvas. As the layers accumulate, a careless eye might just see the same strip of color, but look closer and you’ll see the small warbles in the ointment, the gradual layering and texture that ultimately makes for a dense work of art. Perfect Days becomes hypnotic in the same way.
As someone society often overlooks, Hirayama’s an astute observer. He takes black-and-white photographs of nature, and he catches small details like how the light plays off shiny surfaces, or a child’s quirky behavior. Every night, we see these glimpses rendered back as abstract collages inside his mind. Mind as a sponge, wrung out to mesmerizing effect.
Taken all together, Perfect Days rejects the notion that splendor’s only found at the Grand Canyon, the Sistine Chapel, or Cueva de los Manos and instead suggests it’s all around you. As urbanites grow more disheartened with the concrete jungle and the walls often feel like they’re closing in, Wenders’ movie is like a balm for the soul.
Koji Yakusho’s performance as Hirayama is a man-made piece of art. A taciturn man, Hirayama’s not one for long exchanges, and for the vast majority of Perfect Days, Yakusho’s only scene partner is life itself, and even though it’s devoid of sound, the non-verbal exchange is incessant. Amusement, bemusement, sadness, wistfulness, exhilaration, frustration – it’s all there on Yakusho’s face with the most natural of ease.
Some movies you carry with you like a stone in your shoe or a splinter in your brain. Others give you wings. And some, like Perfect Days, become small objects of affection, similar to a favorite coin you fidget with in your pocket. They keep you grounded, as touching them recall some deeper emotion that’s somewhere in between acquiescence and contentment, making movies like this something akin to a coping mechanism. Yes, there’s a messiness to life and frustrations aplenty. But elation’s here. If you look for it.
Mikkel Frederiksen 