"Perfect Days" – finding beauty in the everyday

Our latest Film Group meeting centred on Perfect Days, Wim Wenders' quietly captivating film about Hirayama, a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo.

At first glance it seems an unlikely premise for a feature film, but as many of us discovered, it becomes something much richer: a meditation on kindness, contentment and what it means to live well.

Adrian introduced the film by sharing a telling anecdote: he and Susie were unable to find the English subtitles, but after seven or eight minutes they were hooked and watched it all in Japanese. Surprisingly, very little was lost. The film's power lies as much in its images, the lead actor’s wonderfully expressive face and the atmosphere as in its dialogue.

The background to the film is a story in itself: it grew out of Tokyo's remarkable public toilet project, for which distinguished architects were commissioned to design 17 beautiful public toilets as part of preparations for the Tokyo Olympics. Originally commissioned as a documentary about the project, in the hands of director Wim Wenders it became a feature film instead. The toilets remained – and are themselves a fascinating window on Japanese culture – but the subject became the man who cares for them.

It’s a film that – to our Western eyes – feels deeply Japanese in character. Often described as almost a "Zen film", it explores the happiness that comes from doing one thing well and living fully in the present, expressing values of respect, craftsmanship and pride in even the most humble work.

Hirayama’s life is built around routine, care and an appreciation of simple pleasures. Quietly dignified, he approaches his toilet-cleaning job with attention and pride, treating both his work and the people around him with respect. He is generous to those he knows – welcoming his niece when she runs away from home, giving money to his somewhat feckless young colleague – and kind to strangers – taking care of a young boy who has lost his mother, then showing no displeasure when she fails either to acknowledge or thank him. He notices beauty that others overlook: in a homeless man perform a clumsy tai chi, in the tree seedlings he rescues from a temple garden or in sunlight filtering through leaves. (Originally the film’s title was “komorebi”, a Japanese word meaning “sunlight leaking through the trees”.)

Of course, we can't help but speculate about Hirayama's past. In many ways he seems out of place and time: a nature lover in the middle of the city, displaced from his family, analogue in a digital age. This is an educated, middle-aged man who reads literature (second-hand copies bought for a dollar), listens to American songs from the 60s and 70s on original cassette tapes and captures his week through black-and-white photographs taken on an old-style film camera. His home environment is spartan, his days routine, his lifestyle solitary. He appears content, yet an unmistakable sadness lingers beneath the surface.

The film offers only fragments—a visit from his sister brings suggestions of a more affluent life and hints of a difficult history with his father—but never explains why he chose his present existence. Adrian shared that Wenders wrote a detailed backstory for the actor but deliberately withheld it from the audience, believing viewers should reach their own conclusions.

That ambiguity became one of the evening's main talking points. Was Hirayama escaping something painful? Had he – with echoes of the Buddha’s life story – rejected wealth and status in favour of a simpler, more meaningful life? Parallels were drawn with Japanese society, where the corporate life is either embraced or rejected, and choosing to step away from conventional expectations carries particular significance.

Kōji Yakusho is renowned for expressing profound emotion with remarkably little dialogue, and nowhere is that more evident than here.

His final scene, set to Nina Simone’s Feeling Good, is extraordinary. In a single continuous three-minute shot, Hirayama drives through Tokyo’s morning traffic and we watch – in intimate close-up – the joy, sadness, doubt, hope and myriad other emotions move across his face. Adrian shared Wenders’ response to Kōji Yakusho's performance:

“Little did I know how far he was going to take that scene. We shot it first from the side, with Hirayama driving his tiny van in real traffic. So [Kōji] also had to keep his eyes on the road and was responsible for all his passengers. My director of photography, Franz, was sitting in the passenger seat, shooting a side angle from up close. I was behind, crammed in with the camera assistant and the sound engineer, looking down on my little monitor watching Kōji drive, put in the cassette, and listen, with the song playing over his face, as if we could read Simone’s lyrics on it. I was very moved, and when I looked up, I saw Franz weeping, no longer able to look through his viewfinder, tears streaming down his face. I just prayed he was able to hold on to that unbelievable shot. What Kōji was doing I didn’t know was possible for an actor. Laughing and crying at the same time, letting his entire life show—his doubts, but also, his joy and his confidence…”

Every viewer is likely to see something different in the emotions Yakusho conveys. This is a film that demands a personal response.

The film's visual style also generated plenty of admiration. The use of older, analogue technology gave the story a timeless quality, reinforced by the near-square 4:3 aspect ratio.

Grey and white dreamlike scenes form subtle divisions between days and entice amateur psychoanalysis in the viewer. The music is equally important. Far more than simple accompaniments to the story, the carefully chosen songs reveal the interior lives of the characters.

Our conversation broadened into members' own experiences of Japan. Those who had visited recognised the atmosphere Wenders captures so vividly—the quiet order, the efficient transport, the remarkable public toilets and the subtle social interactions that shape everyday life. Others reflected on how differently public spaces and public facilities are valued in Japan compared with the UK.

One particularly interesting theme was loneliness. Although Hirayama lives alone, he is far from isolated. His daily encounters—with shopkeepers, children, colleagues, café owners and strangers—form a quiet network of human connection. Lorna remarked that the film reminded us how much these small interactions matter, something many of us came to appreciate during the Covid years.

By the end of the evening there was broad agreement that Perfect Days rewards patience. It is measured without ever feeling slow, visually beautiful without being showy and emotionally rich without relying on dramatic plot twists. It is a film that invites every viewer to discover something different within it.

Our next Film Group meeting will be on 15 July, when Melissa will introduce Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.