The Happy Adventures of Tokyo Toilet Man

The Japanese word Nichijou, “everyday life”, is more than just a popularized portmanteau; it’s a complete concept. From the quiet domestic dramas of Yasujiro Ozu to contemporary slice of life anime, the Japanese quotidian has developed a romance of its own, and become the envy and inspiration of workers of the entire world seeking fantastical escape from drudgery. The life of a similar character, the well-read photography hobbyist-cum-city janitor Hirayama (Yakusho Koji), guilds Perfect Days, Wim Wenders’ latest and most well regarded recent film since Pina (2011).

Hirayama lives out a fully-ordered existence of his own making. His job at ‘The Tokyo Toilet’ (demeaningly emblazoned on the back of his jumpsuit uniform) allows an early-to-bed, early-to-rise, early-to-leisure schedule, the latter of which consists of dollar shelf name-author books, baseball at the bar and periodical trips to a restaurant owned by a woman for whom he may not pine, but whose presence seems to be his primary and only necessary social outlet. He squeezes in minor public park nature photography on his lunch break and early proto-punk and rhythm and blues tapes on his commute.

It’s not a stereotypical stoicism he embodies, as his emotions leak rather easily (though the ones that do are overwhelmingly positive), but a stoicism it certainly is, as even disruptions to his routine do little to irk him. The film reveals late he could easily have more, but the modesty seems almost its own pleasure for him. He has all the frivolities he could ever want for. 

It’s not so unrealistic a character either; many of us who’ve toiled in a less-than-dream industry know that one guy with impeccable work ethic and not hardly a complaint to be had. He seems a mystery to the common modern young activist, one this film should definitely demystify. Indeed, it’s a work as unflinchingly simple as its protagonist; even as complications threaten his cozy setup, he shrugs them off. That’s the film’s conflict averse ethos as well, its narrative just a snapshot with only a semi-consequential event or two. Inevitably, a paradoxical question invades the viewer’s mind: does the very clear gambit of being “unassuming” pay off in the film assuming a special kind of unassuming? 

The obvious point of Perfect Days is to rediscover the ubiquity of beauty within the least glamorous of existences. While it needn’t be novel, does the film do anything to distinguish itself from a literal century of Ozu and Ozu-inspired cinema from the world over, itself the (original, necessary) realization of a then-already cliche concept? Its “unelevated” conceit, further bolstered by its titular and narrative Lou Reed references, doesn’t approach its apotheosis, Robert Bresson’s “Transcendental cinema”, nor the Dardenne brothers’ neo-neo realism its primarily handheld camera invokes.

But Perfect Days fails to both “disembellish” as radically as so many artists already have and to coast on charm or tonal focus alone. Either of these approaches would’ve served to better underscore the strict structure of Hirayama’s life, a la Jeanne Dielman. The best the film can hope to achieve is a reinvigoration of its core platitude, but its plainness is indicative less of a formal choice and more of a lack thereof. And when your very thematic conceit involves something as grandiose as the all-consuming beauty of life, purporting humility as a conduit almost makes the hubris worse.