The daily grind often brings frustrations that defy our wishes. Have you ever doubted the meaning of work and life amidst the hustle and bustle? How long has it been since you looked up to watch the drifting clouds, bent down to smell the fragrance of flowers and grass, or quieted your mind to feel the pure tranquility of wind rustling through trees? Carrying this inquiry into the essence of life, let us step into the film Perfect Days.

Directed by German filmmaker Wim Wenders, Perfect Days is selected for the 2023 Cannes Film Festival's main competition, receives an Oscar nomination for Best International Feature Film in 2024, and wins multiple international honors including Best Director and Best Actor at the 47th Japan Academy Prize.
Centered on Hirayama (played by Kōji Yakusho), a public restroom cleaner, the film paints a simple yet profound portrait of existence. At 67, Yakusho earns the Cannes Best Actor award for this role. His performance is restrained yet full—without many dialogues, a single glance or subtle gesture suffices to convey Hirayama's inner peace and clarity with striking depth. The film has no dramatic twists or grand plots; instead, through Hirayama's daily work and moments of solitude, it showcases his appreciation for trivial matters and humble insights into fleeting moments of life. Like a refreshing stream, this film washes away worldly restlessness, inviting us to reconsider life's essence—perfection never lies in smooth sailing, but in finding warmth and strength within everyday moments after accepting imperfection.
The film begins with a dream. In it, we see dawn breaking over Tokyo as a man named Hirayama awakens. He sits up, neatly folds the futon spread across the tatami mat, and places the novel beside his pillow back on the bookshelf. Brushing teeth, shaving, watering the plants... After completing this orderly routine, he slips into a uniform emblazoned with "The Tokyo Toilet" on the back and steps out the door.
He climbs into his equally worn van, pops in a treasured cassette tape, and as the melody of House of the Rising Sun mingles with the morning light, Hirayama slowly drives away from his home.
"There is a house in New Orleans
They call the Rising Sun
And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy
And, God, I know I'm one..."
The melancholy strains of House of the Rising Sun echo through the van. This American folk song, reimagined in the 1960s, sings of the shattered lives lived by the youth of New Orleans. Hirayama drives with focused concentration. As the music abruptly ends, we arrive at our destination alongside him. As his uniform indicates, Hirayama is a cleaner for Tokyo's public restrooms. We watch as Hirayama begins his work with practiced efficiency. He strides into the restroom, swiftly gathers scattered paper, sprays disinfectant, and wipes down glass surfaces, urinals, and toilets. He knows every step and detail of the task. He uses an array of tools: different cloths for various surfaces, a portable mirror to inspect blind spots in fixtures, a small brush to clean the spray nozzles in smart toilets, and even tends to the corner plants with care.
This job, which might be seen as trivial and menial, he performs with dedication and solemnity, as if sculpting a precious work of art. Hirayama seems to possess an unwavering gaze. Silent and reserved, he plays the role of a solitary guide, leading us, as curious newcomers, through his life. During his lunch break, he walks alone to a park bench carrying a sandwich.
Here, with almost reverent devotion, he rejoices in komorebi (the beautiful interplay of light and shadow created when sunlight dances through the leaves of trees), capturing the moment with his portable film camera. He also gently transplants a handful of small flowers from under a large tree into a simple flowerpot made of newspaper. After work, we follow his footsteps into another world—a space shielded from the clamor, composed of old-fashioned hot springs, street-side izakayas, and secondhand bookstores. Amidst the world's hustle and bustle, he shines brightly within his own order.
In the film, Hirayama barely speaks. This silence isn't the deliberate withdrawal of one weary of the world, but rather a passive muteness born of bewilderment. When interacting with others, he seems flustered, unsure where to begin: how to tell his young colleague he doesn't want to sell his tapes; how to connect with the lonely woman across from him, also watching the trees while eating lunch; how to persuade his runaway niece to return home; how to tell his sister of his lingering reluctance; how to comfort his terminally ill "rival in love"... In the end, he can only express himself through nods, shakes of the head, smiles, or hugs. Unskilled with words, Hirayama carefully loves this world in his own way.
His colleague Takashi (played by Tokio Emoto) represents a different lifestyle, a typical example of the "relaxed generation." He's lazy, absent-minded, and unreliable; wanting to escape his current job while complaining bitterly about his lack of income, tormented by the pressures of a meritocracy.
Though Hirayama and Takashi are work partners, their interactions are always one-sided. When Takashi rants endlessly about work and life, Hirayama neither agrees nor argues; he simply responds with silence, remaining focused on his own tasks. Never do the two linger in the same frame during work scenes—Takashi never enters Hirayama's field of vision. Perfect Days, a solo showcase uniquely belonging to Hirayama, seems solely concerned with his life and the things he chooses to see. Though this film touches upon the "conflict between tradition and modernity," it shows no desire to delve deeper. Hirayama's life is restrained and orderly, strictly adhering to a fixed routine, dotted with numerous retro hobbies: He persistently develops and prints film, meticulously organizing rolls into categorized metal boxes; he reads novels by Faulkner, Patricia Highsmith, and Fumiko Kōda; he dines in old-fashioned izakayas, favoring only the basic Highball cocktail; he plays 1970s American rock on cassette tapes rather than smartphone apps, even mistaking Spotify for a record store.