I have always held Wim Wenders’ films close to my heart. From Wings of Desire and his road movies (such as Alice in the Cities and Paris, Texas) to acclaimed documentaries like The Salt of the Earth and Buena Vista Social Club, his works have always managed to capture my imagination and excite my senses. If I had to pinpoint a certain theme that permeates his whole oeuvre, I think I would choose freedom – or rather the pursuit of it.

This is also the case with Wenders’ latest film Perfect Days, shot entirely in Tokyo and written by Takuma Takasaki and Wenders himself. It follows the everyday life of Hirayama (played by Kōji Yakusho), a middle-aged toilet cleaner who lives and works in Tokyo. The film’s pace is slow and whatever little “action” takes place is portrayed in a subtle and delicate manner, reflecting the protagonist’s mild and gentle character.

Hirayama lives alone in a small apartment, full of books and music cassettes. He spends his days quietly, observing a strict daily ritual: he wakes up at dawn, grabs a refrshment from the vending machine, and drives his van to the city center to work. As soon as his shift is over, he pays a visit to the public bath to relax, followed by a drink in his local hangout. Once he returns home, he reads for a while and goes to sleep, often having elusive dreams of trees, leaves and other patterns.

Along with Hirayama, the other main protagonist is the film’s soundtrack, which subtly follows and comments upon the characters’ actions and feelings. From Velvet Underground’s Pale Blue Eyes and Lou Reed’s Perfect Day (which lends its title to the film) to The Kinks’ Sunny Afternoon and Patti Smith’s Redondo Beach, every song is organically tied to the storyline, strategically placed with precision and thoughtfulness.

An important element in the story is Hirayama’s love for music – mostly ’60s rock – and affection for cassettes, an old-fashioned analog medium that has long been superseded by digital formats in modern-day Tokyo like anywhere else. When his niece Niko (a reference to Nico, the German singer-actress who sang with Velvet Underground on their legendary debut album) asks him if a song is available on Spotify, he naively asks where exactly that “shop” can be found.

As the story evolves, we are offered a glimpse into Hirayama’s rich inner world, his intimate thoughts and feelings, always accompanied by the sound of his favorite music. Slowly but steadily, a portrait emerges of someone who has struggled to become his true self; who has fought and succeeded in gaining his own fragile freedom; who has learned to appreciate the little things and live in the present moment; someone whose sense of self is achieved through embracing both pain and joy, as pictured beautifully in the film’s closing scene, aptly illuminated with Nina Simone’s exhilarating music and words:

Oh, freedom is mine
And I know how I feel

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life for me

I’m feeling good