Perfect Days

I had heard that this movie was beautifully-shot (Wim Wenders’ direction has been solid for decades now), and that it was full of a relaxing, expansive, meditative vibe. I was hoping to see just such a film for my first in-theater movie in over 17 months.

The central fact of the film is simple, and in an income-unequal society, it’s far-too titillating of a lede: Hirayama cleans toilets, in Tokyo.¹ Sadly, I’ve seen several reviews that key in on this as the most salient fact of the whole two-hour runtime. This economic rubbernecking smacks of some sort of fanciful slumming and seem to imply that the mans’ work is demeaning or shameful. No honest man working honestly is shameful in on an honest task is shameful. With the first stumbling block addressed, let me tell you about the exquisite story that builds from this fact.

Hirayama knows how he is seen askance by his citizens.² For example, Hirayama finds a lost child hiding in the toilet. He comforts the boy and escorts him into the park grounds to find his parent. His distraught mother appears moments later and, seeing who is escorting her son, immediately takes out disinfecting wipes to clean the son’s hands lest the germs (or was it the smell of modesty) infect her son.³

But Hirayama’s choice of life is one full of simple pleasures: it’s a life where he lunches in nature within a on grounds; it’s one where he gets to see the sunlight passing through trees make shadows; it’s one where he enjoys cold water and hot ramen served by a joyous owner; it’s a life whose evenings feature the music of nature, the embrace of a good bath and a good book; and it’s a world where he serves his fellow human in their moments of most pressing need.

And it’s tempting for Westerners to engage in Orientalization: that Hirayama is enlightened or more noble for his attitude to work. Or perhaps we consider Hirayama a type of monk: humbly plying a humble trade as a living example. It’s a hard trope to avoid. So, yes, while his home is gorgeously spare in exposed beams and tatami and futons. And his world is full of the fruits of his tender care of other living beings. But let us not objectify him into being a spiritual ideal: he’s merely a man, a good man: giving care and loving nature.

Wenders’ beautiful visual storytelling is perfectly complimented by Koji Yakusho’s portrayal of Hirayama. The story is told over a period of two weeks (I believe). The first day of this period is presented silently as we see Hirayama’s routine:

• He awakens before dawn due to the sound of a broom on his street
• The sounds of nature waft in through is open window
• He folds his duvet in quarters and places his pillow on it
• He folds his futon on tatami in thirds and slides it futon into the corner; the duvet goes on top
• He puts his paperback and reading glasses in their place
• He tends his plants, shaves and brushes his teeth
• He dons his coverall
• He exits his house to stare at the sky and to greet it with a smile
• He gets a coffee from a vending machine in his parking lot. He enjoys it.
• He drives into town while listening to cassettes of Lou Reed, Patti Smith, and the Animals
• He works and helps and has lunch
• He returns home, contraflow to the traffic of Tokyo
• His evenings are spent modestly, productively, and peacefully
• He reads until he falls asleep

In each day’s repetition, Wenders abbreviates a few of the steps shown on the first day because he knows we’ve ingested Hirayama’s schedule and that we will furnish the activities needed to get him to the locus of the interesting action. Let me list a few of these.

In his visitation to the various toilet-houses he comes across the lost; he works with a love-addled junior trainee; he introduces his trainee’s lady-love to Patti Smith’s “Redondo Beach;” he reunites lost children (more than one). In every vignette he finds a way to care for another human, to amaze them, to be amazed by them, to play with them, and to find beauty to admire.

At night, after he parks his blue van full of his custom tools, cleansers, and brushes that he uses to maintain the toilets to perfection, he cycles to the communal bathhouses. He sits on a plastic seat and scrubs. Westerners are treated to a model of public nudity and brotherhood and plumbing novelty that we don’t often see. Clean, after a soak, he dons simple chinos and chambray shirt and heads to a ramen shop. There, he’s greeted energetically. Sometimes he watches baseball, sometimes he simply contemplates his food. He cycles home.

Once a week, on the weekend, he takes his work coveralls from their sturdy hangar with the rest of his laundry to a laundromat. As they wash he gets his camera’s film developed and he picks up last week’s developed photos. He picks up next week’s paperback. The bookstore owner has some of the best lines, “It was from Patricia Highsmith that I learned the difference between fear and anxiety.” His clothes cleaned, photos retrieved, book queue refreshed, he heads back home and evaluates his photos. Some he preserves, and others he rips once and tosses aside. The beautiful stills of nature he puts in carefully cataloged boxes and stores them neatly in his closet. A whole closet of beautiful frames of nature.

Cleaned, his trusty coverall is placed back on its hangar where, against the tatami floor, it looks like revered samurai armor. No ascetic, the weekend affords him the treat a lovingly prepared meal in a small restaurant run by “Mama” who give him a taste of tender kitchen care, but moves the hearts of the diners by her a capella rendering of Japanese translations of western songs (her House of the Rising Sun preserves the mournfulness of the Animals version, translates it to Japanese idiom, and plays with the “rising sun” idea present in both cultures).

At night, he reads a few more pages from the paperback before he puts it down, places his glasses on top and sleeps the untroubled sleep of the just and modest. His dreams are gentle and still.

If there is a “climax” to the movie, and I don’t really think there is, it’s the vignette where his runaway niece flees from her world of wealth and prestige to stay with him. A teen, we get the feeling that things aren’t so smooth at home between the niece and Hirayama’s estranged sister. But Hirayama cares for her in his silent, patient, unjudging way. He allows her to decant. He allows her to accompany him. He shows her the dignity of his work; he shows her the tori gates on the temple grounds; he introduces her to his tree friend; he shows her the ladies wing at the bath house; he buys her ramen. He calls her mother from a pay phone in the bath anteroom.

In a tense scene full of tenderness, sibling love, and the ache of lost time spent to the bullshit of materialism, Hirayama and his sister discuss some of the old wounds that, we intuit, are what drove him away. Something to do with his family’s wealth, something to do with violence from his now-senile father. Their chat takes place over the overpowering loud purr of his sister’s driver’s stately sedan. In contrast to the quiet natural sounds of Hirayama’s life, the sounds of modernity sound absolutely oppressive and abusive. She asks if it’s true that he maintains toilets. He affirms. The pity on her face is a pity soaked in ignorance. We know Hirayama’s life is full of peace. He accepts her pity because he knows she could never understand that it’s OK. As she leaves, she gifts him expensive chocolate. She might not understand him, but she, too, can care for others.

As she climbs into the car with her daughter – the daughter whom Hirayama was able to effortlessly hug moments ago – we feel the distance in their car. We feel her envy that somehow loving is easier for her brother. But she doesn’t see why. But her daughter might well be on the way to seeing it for herself.

But the story is not about right or wrong. It’s just a reflection of what life is like and the decision of one man to try to make the world of others better: be in the bonanza of a clean public toilet or by giving an attentive ear.

But Hirayama isn’t a saint. Wenders is careful to let us see he feels the sadnesses and the anger that we all do. But instead he tries to see through it to a world full of simple beauty.

He performs toilet cleaning excellently because excellence is its own reward.

He performs living with others in mind excellently because excellence is its own reward.

He says little, but his world is truly beautiful. If you can find a theatre near you showing this film, enjoy the calm luxury of two hours of beauty and modesty.

Footnotes

1. To the credit of the Japanese national character, defiling them doesn’t seem to be sport, but dirty toilets they are.
2. Indeed, one has to wonder about reviewers who fixate on his “But he cleans toilets!” and whether they even got the film.
3. Shades of “Parasite,” here.

• Next: Dead Ringers (1988)