This review may contain spoilers
Perfect Days feels like a visual answer to the question of why Japan is so deeply loved. There is something profoundly healing, almost spiritual, about Hirayama’s life. The quiet tranquillity, the peace found in monotony, and the gentle rhythm of his days feel like a reminder of how life could be lived. Watching this movie felt like escaping to Tokyo, not to chase excitement, but to rediscover beauty in everyday life. It’s hard to put into words just how deeply healing this film felt.
Plot*
Hirayama is a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo. His life follows a strict, repetitive routine: waking up, getting ready, watering his plants, buying the same coffee, going to work, and ending his day at the same bathhouses, bars, and small restaurants. On the surface, his life is monotonous. Yet against the backdrop of buzzing Tokyo's skyscrapers, traffic, and fast-paced modernity. Hirayama’s existence feels almost revolutionary. Like he’s the only one who has figured something out, the rest of us are rushing past.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain how this movie made me feel. There’s something almost ironic about the fact that this film began as a documentary project meant to showcase the architectural beauty of Tokyo’s public toilets, and somehow evolved into one of the most powerful and quietly moving movie of the last decade. So much of the movie feels nostalgic, even without relying on overt sentimentality.
*Hirayama*
Hirayama’s routine repeats itself almost identically every single day. The same movements, the same places, the same rhythm. Yet instead of feeling boring, it becomes comforting. Healing. He is a taciturn man who speaks very little; in fact, nearly 90% of the film unfolds without dialogue. And maybe that’s exactly what makes the film so poetic. It doesn’t impose meaning on the viewer. Instead, it trusts you to feel it on your own,
One of the most striking moments in the film is Hirayama’s lunch break at a temple. Like clockwork, he sits surrounded by nature, watching the leaves sway gently as sunlight filters through the trees. This phenomenon—komorebi— " sunlight leaking through trees"- refers to the beauty and wonder of rays of light dappled through overhead leaves. It represents a poetic, aesthetic concept of nature’s beauty and tranquillity, often signifying moments of peace, mindfulness, and the fleeting nature of light, something that exists only once, in that exact moment. Hirayama takes photos of Komorebi, sitting under the same trees every day, yet no picture is ever the same. It feels like a quiet reminder that even within repetition, moments are fleeting and unrepeatable.
Nature plays a crucial role in the film, constantly contrasted with the surrounding modern cityscape. Towering buildings, rushing commuters, and traffic noise set against the calm of sunlight, leaves, and wind. Hirayama is often the only one who pauses to notice these details. He sees beauty where others rush past. Even in traffic, his stillness feels like being untouched by the chaos around him.
The film introduces a subtle change when Hirayama’s runaway niece comes to stay with him. Her presence disrupts his routine and gently challenges his way of living. It’s during this time that we begin to learn more about him, and it’s also one of the few moments when he speaks. What initially seems like the life of a sad old man cleaning toilets slowly reveals itself as a conscious choice, a life he stepped into, not out of failure, but out of a desire for peace and contentment. By the end, his life evokes not pity, but quiet envy.
*Tokyo’s public toilets*
The Tokyo public toilets themselves become works of art. Each one is architecturally unique, some blending seamlessly into nature, others showcasing modern technology, transparency, maze-like structures, or even playful mushroom-shaped designs. It’s architectural innovation at its finest. Choosing toilets instead of skyscrapers to represent Tokyo feels strange at first, but the more I watched, the more poetic it became. It’s precisely this unorthodox choice that gives the film its uniqueness, turning something ordinary into something contemplative.
*Cinematography*
The cinematography carries the same nostalgic weight. The camera moves deliberately, often lingering on Hirayama’s expressions—those of a man who seems content, peaceful, and deeply present. There’s a softness to the way he is filmed, as if the movie itself is breathing at his pace.
There are still so many things to say, and yet not enough words. One final detail that lingers is the music—old American classics playing against a Japanese backdrop. The contrast feels unexpected, but it is an essential part of Japanese history and memory, adding another layer to the film’s gentle nostalgia.
Perfect Days didn’t try to impress me. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t explain itself.
It simply existed and invited me to slow down and exist with it.
And somehow, that was enough.
Plot*
Hirayama is a public toilet cleaner in Tokyo. His life follows a strict, repetitive routine: waking up, getting ready, watering his plants, buying the same coffee, going to work, and ending his day at the same bathhouses, bars, and small restaurants. On the surface, his life is monotonous. Yet against the backdrop of buzzing Tokyo's skyscrapers, traffic, and fast-paced modernity. Hirayama’s existence feels almost revolutionary. Like he’s the only one who has figured something out, the rest of us are rushing past.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain how this movie made me feel. There’s something almost ironic about the fact that this film began as a documentary project meant to showcase the architectural beauty of Tokyo’s public toilets, and somehow evolved into one of the most powerful and quietly moving movie of the last decade. So much of the movie feels nostalgic, even without relying on overt sentimentality.
*Hirayama*
Hirayama’s routine repeats itself almost identically every single day. The same movements, the same places, the same rhythm. Yet instead of feeling boring, it becomes comforting. Healing. He is a taciturn man who speaks very little; in fact, nearly 90% of the film unfolds without dialogue. And maybe that’s exactly what makes the film so poetic. It doesn’t impose meaning on the viewer. Instead, it trusts you to feel it on your own,
One of the most striking moments in the film is Hirayama’s lunch break at a temple. Like clockwork, he sits surrounded by nature, watching the leaves sway gently as sunlight filters through the trees. This phenomenon—komorebi— " sunlight leaking through trees"- refers to the beauty and wonder of rays of light dappled through overhead leaves. It represents a poetic, aesthetic concept of nature’s beauty and tranquillity, often signifying moments of peace, mindfulness, and the fleeting nature of light, something that exists only once, in that exact moment. Hirayama takes photos of Komorebi, sitting under the same trees every day, yet no picture is ever the same. It feels like a quiet reminder that even within repetition, moments are fleeting and unrepeatable.
Nature plays a crucial role in the film, constantly contrasted with the surrounding modern cityscape. Towering buildings, rushing commuters, and traffic noise set against the calm of sunlight, leaves, and wind. Hirayama is often the only one who pauses to notice these details. He sees beauty where others rush past. Even in traffic, his stillness feels like being untouched by the chaos around him.
The film introduces a subtle change when Hirayama’s runaway niece comes to stay with him. Her presence disrupts his routine and gently challenges his way of living. It’s during this time that we begin to learn more about him, and it’s also one of the few moments when he speaks. What initially seems like the life of a sad old man cleaning toilets slowly reveals itself as a conscious choice, a life he stepped into, not out of failure, but out of a desire for peace and contentment. By the end, his life evokes not pity, but quiet envy.
*Tokyo’s public toilets*
The Tokyo public toilets themselves become works of art. Each one is architecturally unique, some blending seamlessly into nature, others showcasing modern technology, transparency, maze-like structures, or even playful mushroom-shaped designs. It’s architectural innovation at its finest. Choosing toilets instead of skyscrapers to represent Tokyo feels strange at first, but the more I watched, the more poetic it became. It’s precisely this unorthodox choice that gives the film its uniqueness, turning something ordinary into something contemplative.
*Cinematography*
The cinematography carries the same nostalgic weight. The camera moves deliberately, often lingering on Hirayama’s expressions—those of a man who seems content, peaceful, and deeply present. There’s a softness to the way he is filmed, as if the movie itself is breathing at his pace.
There are still so many things to say, and yet not enough words. One final detail that lingers is the music—old American classics playing against a Japanese backdrop. The contrast feels unexpected, but it is an essential part of Japanese history and memory, adding another layer to the film’s gentle nostalgia.
Perfect Days didn’t try to impress me. It didn’t rush me. It didn’t explain itself.
It simply existed and invited me to slow down and exist with it.
And somehow, that was enough.
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