Perfect Days

 

Director Wim Wenders

PERFECT DAYS         B                                                                                                         Japan  Germany  (124 mi)  2023  d: Wim Wenders

Next time is next time.  Now is now.                                                                                                —Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho)

While this contemplative existential study has the imprint of a Wim Wenders film, known for his meditative explorations of alienation and longing, and for making extremely literate films with carefully chosen rock ‘n’ roll music, and a lifelong love for the Kinks, as his graduation thesis film, SUMMER IN THE CITY (1970), shot on 16mm by longtime Wenders collaborator Robby Müller, was notable for its continuous use of Kinks music.  Many are proclaiming this is a return to form, a throwback to his earlier films, and while there are obvious parallels, it lacks the freedom of movement of his earlier 70’s and 80’s films, where an endless landscape became a central character that dominated the screen.  With its more compressed Tokyo setting, it recalls the Japanese odyssey explored in Tokyo-Ga (1985), an observational travelogue that pays tribute to the unhurried ruminations of Yasuhirō Ozu.  A graduate of the University of Television and Film Munich in 1970, Wenders worked as a film critic for various publications while he was still in school, and while he is a major figure in the New German Cinema movement from the 60’s to the 80’s, an era when most German films were subsidized by state television, Wenders is perhaps less known than his towering compatriots Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog, and while his films may be less radical, they have an equally distinctive style, coming closer to the everyday, while also more alienated and detached.  The protagonists in Wim Wenders films tend to be on the literary side, like Bruno Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) from Kings of the Road (Im Lauf der Zeit) Road Trilogy Pt. 3 (1976), who periodically can be seen reading William Faulkner’s 1939 novel The Wild Palms, with its infamous closing line, “Between grief and nothing I will take grief.”  In Wenders’ new film starring Kōji Yakusho, long associated with the works of Kiyoshi Kurosawa, the protagonist is also seen reading Faulkner’s The Wild Palms, along with other books, including Aya Kōda’s Ki, and a collection of Patricia Highsmith’s short stories.  Amusingly, the used bookstore owner (Inuko Inuyama) always offers her own expository comments about the author of each of books he purchases, where her brief yet revelatory insight mirrors the internalized reflections of this film. Wenders exposes how modern life is stressful and degrading, how we disconnect from culture and social relations by transforming everything into a commercial transaction, whether it’s work, love, or friendship.  Wenders honors a traditional aspect of Japan which has a strong culture of respect and duty, including a respect for cleanliness and the environment, but also for serving the common good.  The knock on the film is that it does occasionally veer into cliché’d moments of sentimentality, where the music is used to provide the emotions the film discreetly avoids, becoming a nostalgic lament for the days when people routinely took pride in their work, while offering an overly optimistic take on class equality, honoring the value of menial labor, but it also accentuates the often overlooked transient moments of our lives, creating a cinematic tone poem of ephemeral beauty.  

At the heart of this film are tiny architectural marvels, backed by the non-profit Nippon Foundation, where the Tokyo Toilet project was responsible for the creation of 17 new public bathroom facilities across Shibuya, Tokyo (a major commercial and finance center featuring two of the busiest railway stations in the world), each one designed by leading architects intent on transforming the perceptions of public rest room facilities in Japan, where according to a 2016 government survey devised by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism, a mere 1% of participants reported frequently using toilets at parks and public areas, while 90% insisted they rarely or never used them due to the belief they were unclean, unsanitary, and unsafe, which is fairly typical of most large cities, where this depiction feels more like a dream oasis than a reality, as these futuristic designs are so appreciably welcoming.  Award-winning architect Ban Shigeru came up with the idea of see-through toilets with glass walls so potential customers can see for themselves how astonishingly clean they are, with the otherwise clear walls turning opaque if they are occupied, while also introducing high-tech devices with heated seats and a built-in bidet with adjustable water temperature.   Using colorful modernist designs that perfectly blend into their urban environment, PERFECT DAYS - Clip 2 YouTube (45 seconds), the key to their success is maintaining them in a pristine state, with a dedicated cleaning staff dressed in recognizable uniforms keeping regular cleaning schedules, where the maintenance status can be posted online.  With this in mind, Wenders and co-writer Takuma Takasaki have concocted a near wordless rumination on the experiences of a middle-aged toilet cleaner in Tokyo, as the self-contained reserve of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho, winner of the Best Actor award at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, also an executive producer on the film) is seen going through his methodical routine each day, reading bargain-bin paperbacks before bed, neatly folding his futon mattress in the corner of his cramped apartment each morning, lovingly tending to his plants, hand-picked from parks when they are small sprigs blocked from the sunlight, overshadowed by larger trees, which he transplants to his home, drinking a can of coffee out of a vending machine before heading to work where he mops and scrubs toilets, keeping them spotlessly clean, showing extreme diligence in his work ethic as guardian of the facilities, where it’s ten minutes or so before a single spoken word is uttered.  Instead the camera holds tight to Hirayama, who is in nearly every frame of the film, with viewers seeing what he sees, experiencing what he experiences, visiting public baths frequented by middle-aged and senior men while also routinely having meals in modest establishments where they cheerfully greet him as a regular customer, becoming an immersive journey into the existential soul of a single, solitary man who is part of society’s invisible class, low-wage workers who are ignored by the larger public as if they don’t exist.  But we quickly learn what’s so appealing about him in the early morning light, playing a cassette tape in his minivan stocked with supplies on the way to work, as we hear Eric Burdon and the Animals in all their glory sing the 1964 classic, The Animals - House Of The Rising Sun (Music Video) [4K HD] YouTube (4:20).  The music sets the tone for what follows, as despite his meticulous routine, there’s something uniquely different about this man of few words. 

Every day Hirayama stops to eat lunch in a wooded park setting, eating a sandwich out of a vending machine while reading his book, yet he’s transfixed by the changing light in the trees above, pulling out his old Olympia 35mm film camera to take a snapshot, like Philip Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) in Alice in the Cities (Alice in den Städten) Road Trilogy Pt. 1  (1974), while also observing an elderly homeless man (Min Tanaka) in the park doing Tai Chi movements or collecting a bundle of sticks that he carries tied to his back, something out of the ordinary, appearing out of place, yet there’s something appealing about the way he looks out for him, always acknowledging his presence, showing ultimate respect for those living on the margins.  Even off the clock, Hirayama shows an introspective reserve, yet extreme dedication to every moment of his life, expressed through prolonged silences, as the film slowly peels back the layers of the man, excavating meaning behind the rituals of his existence, finding poetry and purpose in the mundane, where this obsession with cleaning might be a metaphor for cleansing his life, as if atoning for past sins.  Like Jim Jarmusch in his road adventures, Wenders sprinkles in a few oddball characters, where the chatty, hyper-nervous Takashi (Tokio Emoto) is Hirayama’s less dedicated, more easily distracted working partner who needs to scrounge up some cash for his date with Aya (Aoi Yamada), remarking she’s a ten out of ten, a bohemian blond who is different, probably out of his league, which explains his intensifying anxiety, melting down into a moral crisis when he exerts extreme pressure trying to manipulate Hirayama into selling some of his vintage cassettes, mostly music from the 60’s and 70’s, as they’re worth a fortune, fearing this opportunity will pass him by, growing ever more desperate with each passing minute.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the date (which we never see) doesn’t go well, but Aya grows fascinated by tape cassettes.  Arriving out of nowhere, yet planted on his doorstep is Hirayama’s teenage niece Niko (Arisa Nakano), who stays for a few days, no reason given, becoming firmly embedded in her uncle’s routine, helping him on the rounds, eating that same sandwich for lunch, photographing that same tree on her phone, Perfect Days | Exclusive Clip YouTube (1:37), borrowing the same books to read, where it’s clear how fond they are of each other, even if they never formally express it, apparently turning to him when she has troubles at home.  Both obtain gratification from having a structure, from being organized and enjoying the small moments without living in a hurry, where their bike ride together recalls the memory of Setsuko Hara as Noriko in Ozu’s Noriko Trilogy Late Spring (Banshun) (1949), Early Summer (Bakushû) (1951), and Tokyo Story (Tokyo Monogatari) (1953), especially when he reminds her “The world is made up of many worlds.  Some are connected, and some are not.”  In many ways, Hirayama (the last name of the family in TOKYO STORY), resembles a modern day Chishū Ryū from that Trilogy, each exhibiting a masterclass in minimalist screen acting, sharing the same fatherly wisdom, the conventions of comfort and routine, while taking extreme pleasure in minor details.   

The music of Lou Reed figures just as prominently, starting the day with the sunlight bathing his face, PERFECT DAYS | Official Clip | In cinemas now YouTube (1:07), while also languishing in the atmospheric warmth of The Kinks - Sunny Afternoon (1966) 4K YouTube (3:36), where each day offers something new, yet the most stylistic innovation comes from black and white dream sequences, which appear like transitional pillow shots in Ozu films, an abstract blend of images that seem to contrast shadows and light, with the “dream instillations” design credited to Donata Wenders, the wife of the director.  If you stay until the end of the final credits you’ll discover this comes from the Japanese concept of Komorebi (Komorebi 木漏れ日), which translates to “sunlight leaking through trees,” describing the pattern of light that appears when the sun’s rays filter through the overhead leaves of the trees, casting shadows that last only an instant before disappearing forever, creating a moment of fleeting beauty, like a Haiku poem.  Another Lou Reed song seems to encapsulate the entirety of the film, Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground // Perfect Days Edit YouTube (5:44), where memories come back to haunt us, often filling us with regret, yet the compilation of thoughts and reflections over an entire lifetime are what comprise our unique identity, as every moment becomes magnified through the lens of Wenders and his cinematographer Franz Lustig who has worked with him since LAND OF PLENTY (2004), in this case using full-frame lenses from the 70’s.  One of the most heart-wrenching moments of the film comes from a basement noodle bar proprietess known only as Mama (Sayuri Ishikawa), who treats Hirayama with a kind affection, like a long lost friend, but when one of the customers pulls out a guitar, she is persuaded to sing for the house, a reprise of a song we heard earlier, but given a distinct Japanese quality that is truly her own, Perfect Days: House Of The Rising Sun (Japanse versie) YouTube (1:20).  While we’ll never know her backstory, we can only imagine how this song encapsulates her life.  Hirayama’s modest lifestyle appears to be a carefully constructed safeguard against painful family memories that still haunt him, like lingering shadows from the past, resembling the detached life of exhausted traveler Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) in Paris, Texas (1984), or Damiel (Bruno Ganz), the weary angel from Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) (1987), where his avoidance of deep relationships and digital tools speaks to a desire for tranquility through a tightly regulated routine.  There’s a quirky moment afterwards when Hirayama runs into a complete stranger seen giving Mama a hug, Tomoyama (Tomokazu Miura), where their coming together is pure coincidence, with grave implications, yet their interaction is almost childlike, filled with nuanced emotions and a carefree spirit, leading to Nina Simone singing Feelin’ Good in the final sequence, Perfect Days - Ending Scene YouTube (2:50), which plays over close-up images of Hirayama driving his van, an extended scene focusing entirely on the man we’ve been watching for two hours, suddenly jettisoned into our lives, where he sticks with us long afterwards, actually mattering in ways we can’t really fathom.   

Late Autumn (Akibiyori)

 

Anpo protests, 1960

 

 

 

 

 

LATE AUTUMN (Akibiyori)         B                                                                                     Japan  (128 mi)  1960  d: Yasujirō Ozu

People complicate the simplest things.  Life, which seems complex, suddenly reveals itself as very simple.  I wanted to show that in this film.  There was something else, too.  If needing to show drama in a film, the actors laugh or cry.  But this is only explanation.  A director can really show what he wants without resorting to an appeal to the emotions.  I want to make people feel without resorting to drama.  And it’s very difficult.  In Late Autumn, I think I was really successful.  But the results are still far from perfect.                                            —Yasujirō Ozu, Film Comment, On Yasujirô Ozu

A somewhat comic story of family meddling, where the life of an unmarried daughter is the primary focus, with friends of the family insisting that she marry before it becomes too late, with three middle-aged men trying to get the young woman married through their own somewhat inept arrangements, which seems to be more about gossip and rumors than anything else, as the director retreads on similar themes initially raised in Late Spring (Banshun) (1949), yet inverting the parental gender roles, examining the consequences of marriage from a mother’s perspective, yet by 1960, this is an old-fashioned and extremely conservative viewpoint, resorting to pre-war methods of arranged marriage, which may explain why the mocking tone is one of comic bemusement.  Accentuating still-existing patriarchal dominance in society, featuring men in business suits nosing into a friend’s family affairs, usually centered around communal discussions over shared sake, as their bumbling incompetence leads to awkward situations and misdirected family tensions, but somehow, someway, it all works out happily in the end, but this time, instead of Chishū Ryū staring off into the distance into his solitary future, it is Setsuko Hara, having married off her lone daughter, leaving her all alone at the end to contemplate her own solitary existence, with shots of empty rooms and office corridors that were once populated with people as metaphors for the emptiness in the next phase of her life.  While this is among the last films Ozu directed, it is an adaptation of a 1960 story written by Ton Satomi, the pen-name of Japanese author Hideo Yamanouchi, unafraid to add a little toilet humor, as one of the characters, an elderly widower, always rushes off to the bathroom every time he gets excited about the prospects of remarrying.  Essentially a comedy of manners exploring how women still live in a patriarchal society, as men, 15-years post-war, even after the instillation of new democratic laws and reforms, still hold the power to decide what happens in women’s lives, even when presented as modernized and self-sufficient in a new economically revitalized Japan.  While Ozu reduces this to comic absurdity, nonetheless the point is made that women are free from masculine authority, but only in spirit, as all the power in institutions, namely government, law, education, business, finance, and professional organizations continue to be male-centric, suggesting the choice of romantic love is a luxury few can afford, that it is folly to attempt to cling to the old ways in a world so insistent upon changing, yet the newer generation’s options come with its own perils, forced to choose between independence and the restrictive safety of marriage.  Interestingly, Ozu shows a dozen young men and women assembled for a hike through the mountains walking in step through the fields, which mirrors the opening of Hou Hsiao-hsien’s Good Men, Good Women (Hao nan hao nu) (1995), with men and women walking through the countryside singing songs, yet Ozu also adds the sound of a girl’s choir at a gathering of young students at a hot springs retreat, becoming a poetic narrative device, accentuating the theme of autumn leaves falling, a reference to the changing times, offering the mindset of the mother as her daughter is about to be married, bringing to an end one phase of motherhood.  Contrast that with the sounds of Mozart Piano Sonata No.11 in A Major K.331 (Mov.I - Andante grazioso) YouTube (13:44) heard being played off in the distance while a dressmaking class is in session where the mother works, shifting quickly to the sound of typewriters where the daughter works in an office, yet unlike her mother’s generation, she doesn’t need to marry as she has her own means of supporting herself, another example of a generational shift.  In Early Summer (Bakushû) (1951), the choice made by the daughter, Setsuko Hara, flew in the face of tradition, defying the wishes of her family, ignoring their marital suggestion, and made her own choice, asserting her own future.  Japan was transforming so rapidly, politically, socially, in terms of technology, in terms of lifestyle, as the country moved from being a military tyranny in the 1930’s, when Ozu was in the early part of his career, to becoming a liberal democracy in the 1950’s and 60’s, so, with that as a background, it’s no surprise that the way a parent lives, thinks, and feels is totally different to how their son or daughter does.

1960 was a year of protest and dissension against the renewal of the Japanese-American Security Treaty, which allowed the U.S. to maintain a military presence on the island of Japan, even after the end of the American occupation, a condition of restoring Japan’s sovereignty as a nation.  Known as the Anpo protests, they were the largest popular protests in Japan’s history, including violent clashes between students and police, chanting anti-American slogans and singing protest songs, with over 10,000 students protesting, resulting in a series of recurring incidents throughout the year that placed a negative light on the treaty.  Later in the year, a right-wing teenage fanatic assassinated a Socialist leader on national television, while later committing suicide in jail.  None of this social turbulence can be seen in Ozu’s film, ignoring it completely, as if existing in an alternate reality.  Portraying a tranquil society that no longer exists, this is not among the upper echelon of Ozu films, as the story itself feels slight, suffering from the stark contrast of having been done so much better a decade earlier in Late Spring (Banshun) (1949), with Setsuko Hara playing the daughter in that film, now playing the widowed family matriarch, though this film expands the viewpoint of young women during Japan’s modernization.  The film opens with a memorial service on the seventh anniversary of the death of a late college friend, Miwa, as three middle-aged friends and former college mates, Mamiya (Shin Saburi) and Taguchi (Nobuo Nakamura), two businessmen, and Professor Hirayama (Ryūji Kita) greet Miwa’s widow Akiko (Setsuko Hara) and her 24-year-old daughter Ayako (Yōko Tsukasa), with all three of them once having a crush on the mother when she was younger. Mocking the chauvinism of the older generation, these three men serve as a kind of outdated Greek Chorus whose patriarchal influence is increasingly irrelevant as they remark upon Ayako’s beauty, quickly deciding they immediately need to find a marital match for her, which they arrange like a business deal, while also commenting on how attractive Akiko has remained.  When these men return to their own homes, the comic exaggeration continues, displaying a comedy of errors with Taguchi dropping his clothes behind him at random throughout his home while his wife dutifully picks them all up and places them on a hangar, while the wives relentlessly tease their husbands and the children mock the emptiness of their patriarchal authority, with Ozu accentuating their blatant independence.  After Tagushi’s prospective suitor already has a fiancée, Mamiya offers one of his employees, Gotō (Keiji Sada), but Ayako, who enjoys wearing Western dress, with a short hairstyle, insists she’s not ready to get married, that she couldn’t be happier living with her more traditional mother, who teaches dressmaking, wearing old kimonos, as they remain close, travelling around the country together exploring different parts of the country.  Ayako’s refusal causes plenty of confusion and conflict, but the trio of men refuse to let go, deciding she’s only holding out because her mother’s not married, as she doesn’t want to leave her alone, so they set out to offer Hirayama as a good match for Akiko, resuscitating his teenage interest in her, but they fail to realize the consternation this careless interference will cause, leading to quarrels and misunderstandings.  When Taguchi visits Akiko, presumably to hatch their plan, he never gets around to mentioning it, as she’s consumed with thoughts of her dead husband, yet Mamiya thoughtlessly lets Ayako know about the plan, and she is indignantly shocked that her mother is considering remarrying, so when she questions her mother about it, she believes she’s keeping secrets from her, yet Akiko really has no idea what she’s talking about.  Angered by her mother’s apparent unwillingness to be forthcoming, she storms out of the house in a huff and visits a colleague from work, Yuriko (Mariko Okada, a breath of fresh air, stealing every scene she’s in), a thoroughly modern young woman, hoping she’d be sympathetic, but she takes her mother’s position, stating “I’d let my mother live her own life,” suggesting she deserves happiness, believing Ayako is simply being selfish.  Ayako and Yuriko often run to the roof of their office building to converse, as do many of the employees, often seen peering over the ledge just to watch the trains pass, yet also sharing hesitant views on marriage, observing that friends who do get married tend to become socially disconnected, with suggestions that giving up your freedom is a major sacrifice.  Nonetheless, Ayako re-engages with Gotō once he’s introduced through her own friends.     

Accentuating the transition from childhood to adulthood, and the tension between tradition and modernity, Ozu’s particular style of filmmaking shows the tiny, quiet details of everyday life, featuring long takes and low camera positions from Yūharu Atsuta using a 50mm lens, never focusing on a single character, never using flashbacks, never shooting subjective images of any kind, nothing to show what a character may be thinking or imagining, eventually rejecting all point-of-view shots, avoiding any human-level vantage point (which is why the camera is so low), while eliminating camera movement, fades, or dissolves.  The documentary look of his films feels surprisingly similar from film to film, establishing an ordinary rhythm of life, allowing viewers time to reflect, from which we can extrapolate universal themes and values, yet there are empty spaces of still lifes, interiors, building facades, urban streets, and landscapes, often occurring between scenes, with an everpresent train sequence inhabiting every film.  Working with his screenwriting partner Kōgo Noda, together they collaborated on twenty-seven films over a thirty-five year partnership, developing a special bond together, which grew out of a shared cinematic sensibility and a natural friendship.  Ozu made only two films after this one, coming near the end of his life, where four of his final five pictures were reworkings of earlier movies he’d made, the last six shot in color, writing a half-comic drama about parenthood and marriage prospects that also laments how traditions are fading away in postwar Japan.  The economic growth in Japan as it entered the 1960’s was a surge towards modernity, hosting the Summer Olympics in 1964 as the first Asian nation to do so, representing Japan’s symbolic rebirth after the devastation of World War II.  Like many of the films she’s in, Setsuko Hara only really comes into play in the later scenes, gaining more screen time, exhibiting a fuller emotional range, becoming the dominant star that she was.  This film playfully exhibits the adolescence of fully mature men, where the camaraderie of their college days has never left them, still enjoying the idea of pulling pranks.  Ozu’s films document the changing expectations placed upon women in a more modern society, exemplified by Ayako and Yuriko, two working girls in Tokyo who are offered opportunities their parents could never dream of.  While the two women have their own ideas and each approach marriage differently, they personify the transforming role of women in Japanese society.  The focus of the film shifts to Yuriko when she discovers these men have taken advantage of Akiko through behind-the-back rumors and unintentionally created a family furor.  She storms into a meeting with the three of them ready to lay the hammer on all three, exhibiting a fierce sense of moral outrage, offering scathing criticism for creating a division between Ayako and Akiko, standing over them and reprimanding them like disobedient children, which they meekly apologize for, but in doing so, she reveals essential information that was missed by these instigators, who quickly regroup and add Yuriko to their hatched plot, but not before she tricks them into eating in her family’s restaurant, ordering a generous meal along with plenty of sake to go around, as these men are secretly coerced into contributing to the family coffers, enjoying the ruse afterwards, recognizing the cleverness of this new generation.  While taking perhaps their last trip together to the Ikaho hot springs, the focus returns to Akiko, who assures her daughter that she has her full support if she wishes to marry Gotō, who by all indications is a generous and level-headed young man with steady employment, but that she is not so inclined, wishing for her daughter’s happiness while reassuring her that she’ll be fine on her own.  What’s clearly evident is that neither one knows the lengths the other is willing to go to on their behalf, which is an intriguing comment on both women.  This generational contrast is evident, however, as her daughter has much more self-assurance in approaching a new age, while Akiko remains thoroughly connected to the past through her deceased husband, whose spirit has never left her, unable to move on from his presence.  As she witnesses the ritual of Ayako’s ceremonial wedding photo, dressed in formal clothes, a send-off to a new phase in her life, Akiko returns home, briefly visited by Yuriko in a deeply affecting scene, with a montage of previously filled spaces now suddenly empty, rearranging things differently, folding her kimono, finally contemplating her solitary existence.