Repetition is disliked by society, which values surprise and spontaneity instead. We are marketed adventure and novelty. We are informed how monotonous it is to carry out the same old routine every day for eternity. But what if we find happiness in routine? What if it gives us comfort? What happens if we require it? Patterns are aesthetically pleasant, repeating rhythms are gratifying, and occasionally, like in life, they are magnificent in both music and art. There can be happiness in routine, as Wim Wenders so gently examines in Perfect Days. It’s not even remotely noteworthy.
Our guide is Kōji Yakusho’s Hirayama, a kind, reclusive sixty-something who resides in Tokyo’s Oshiage neighborhood in a small but well-kept apartment. He gets up in the morning, tucks his futon mat away, trims his mustache, and feeds his plants. He gets his coffee from the vending machine outside, gets into his little vehicle, and heads to work in the dark. Subsequently, he emerges from his jumpsuit and adorns himself like a lavatorial Ghostbuster, walking the streets of Shibuya.
Kōji Yakusho, the lead actor, is 68 years old and exudes life experience; his performance is a masterclass in subtlety.
Hirayama is virtually invisible to the guests that come and leave, but he maintains the facilities with the same meticulous care and devotion as if he were looking after the Mona Lisa. As they scuttle in, he smiles and waits patiently. Not that Hirayama, who is completely unaffected by ego, would see it that way, but it is a task of quiet virtue. Taking satisfaction in his work, he leaves for home, unfolds the futon mat, and cheerfully repeats the process the following day. Of course, these are beautiful latrines; after all, he works for the actual Tokyo Toilet project, which bills itself as an artist’s interpretation of a public restroom. This is not train spotting.
Is Hirayama happy now? It appears so. He is reticent to speak, prefers to gesture than to speak, gives little away, and has no needs. Or so it appears, until his life is abruptly cut short, throwing off his equilibrium and causing the man’s and the movie’s rhythm to falter. A little bit.
Perfect Days has no drama, simply brief moments of action and an emotional development as we discover a little bit more about Hirayama. In his sixth decade as a director, the 78-year-old Wenders co-wrote the picture with poet Takuma Takasaki. It’s difficult to imagine a younger director paying respect to a guy in such a subtle way, and certainly not as tenderly as Wenders has. Meanwhile, Kōji Yakusho, the 68-year-old lead, performs with a mastery of nuance as life experience pours out of him. When he does need to express himself more visibly, he flickers between several emotions at once and moves in a way that’s difficult to pinpoint. That’s how the entire movie feels: almost unreachable, full with meaning yet seemingly lacking action. It creeps up on you.
It all comes down to those rhythms and how we adjust to them when they shift. The movie has a somewhat Buddhist feel to it, with Hirayama, who loves trees just as much as people, cherishing every seedling and pausing to take pictures with a film camera as the sun begins to peek through. He has steadfastly stuck to the early 1970s despite the world changing around him. He travels and listens to music cassettes (Otis Redding, Lou Reed, and Nina Simone). He is equally ritualistic in his leisure time, frequenting the same public baths, bar, and bookstore. He is a man who lives in the present, even if it is a lowly one, and moves at his own pace. And he welcomes the opportunity to lose himself in his work. or perhaps withdraw to.
As contemplative as the guy himself, the movie accepts it as well, with cinematographer Franz Lustig’s camera peeping at him with tactful but loving attention. This tender portrayal is both insightful and humorous at the same time. Hirayama is often a little taken aback by his erratic and cautious young colleague Takashi (played by the happy-go-lucky Tokio Emoto). But what stays with you is the serenity, and you realize how uncommon that is in modern movies. as well as in our daily lives. It’s a quiet movie that is content to linger and simply be. You might not be changed by it, but you might be fed by it. Which is the point, naturally.