Wim Wenders stands as a cinematic poet, weaving delicate threads of imagery and philosophy into tapestries that lay bare the soul of humanity, revealing its quiet aches and sublime longings. His latest work, Perfect Days (2023), unfolds as a quiet, introspective meditation, that offers a tender exploration of solitude, routine, and the tenuous threads of connection. Against the vibrant albeit isolating backdrop of contemporary Tokyo, we follow Hirayama (played by Kôji Yakusho), a modest toilet cleaner whose unassuming life carries a hushed rhythm of beauty and reflection. Through deliberate pacing and an understated storytelling, Perfect Days touches on the resonant quest for meaning, the haunting stillness of existential solitude, and the ephemeral yet profound connections that tether us to one another. Moreover, Wenders’ narrative approach exemplifies the power of the art film to transcend conventional entertainment, instead inviting viewers into a contemplative space as he eschews dramatic plot twists and dialogue-heavy exposition in favour of subtle visual cues, shrewd pacing, and evocative soundscapes. These elements coalesce to create an experience that is as much about feeling as watching. In doing so, Wenders crafts a cinematic meditation on what it means to exist in a world that often feels disconnected and alienating, yet holds the prospect for joy nonetheless. Through the lens of existential solitude and human connection, Wenders employs visuality, sound, and narrative economy to evoke a sense of empathy and introspection. In an era when disconnection feels ever more pervasive, Perfect Days is a testament to cinema’s power to illuminate the fragile, yet enduring, threads that bind us as human beings.

Watching Perfect Days inclined me to conceptualize existential solitude, so as to frame solitude not to connote isolation or despair but as a reflective state; an intimate dialogue with the self, where meaning quietly emerges amidst the stillness of existence. Moreover, existential solitude can be understood as a nuanced state distinct from existential loneliness—as conveyed by the likes of Søren Kierkegaard, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Albert Camus—which concerns the inherent isolation that arises from one’s awareness of life’s impermanence, the uniqueness of one’s subjective experiences, and the inevitability of death. Kierkegaard’s notion of despair arises from the tension between one’s finite self and the infinite, a condition that canonly be reconciled through an authentic relationship with God.i In contrast, Sartre sees human freedom and the absence of preordained meaning as the foundation of existential anguish, famously declaring that one is “condemned to be free.”ii Whereas Camus, with his concept of the absurd, explores the chasm between humanity’s desire for meaning and the universe’s indifference, suggesting that individuals must create their own meaning despite the void.iii Heidegger’s Being and Time also introduces another dimension, emphasizing the experience of being-towards-death and the need to confront one’s mortality to achieve an authentic existence.iv For Heidegger, solitude is both an existential condition and a potential site of self-discovery, as one grapples with the reality of their finite being.

In the context of cinema, existential solitude speaks to a reflective state in films that prioritize mood, character interiority, and the passage of time. Films like Yasujirō Ozu’s Tokyo Story (1953), Andrei Tarkovsky’s Nostalgia (1983), and Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation (2003) examine characters caught in moments of detachment from others, where solitude becomes a lens for understanding their inner worlds. Thematically, this also runs through Wim Wenders’ oeuvre with films like Paris, Texas (1984) and Wings of Desire (1987) that capture the interplay between isolation and the search for connection. Perfect Days extends this tradition, portraying solitude to be a quietly layered exploration of being, not a condition of despair as Hirayama’s life is structured around a series of daily routines: meticulously cleaning public toilets, savoring brief moments of stillness in Tokyo’s urban sprawl, and listening to cassette tapes of classic rock music. These repetitive, intentional rituals reflect what Camus might describe as the mechanics of living in The Myth of Sisyphus.v But unlike Sisyphus, Hirayama does not appear to rebel against the absurdity of his existence. Instead, he embraces it with quiet dignity, finding beauty in the smallest details of his solitary life.

Wenders’ cinematography immerses viewers in this solitude, framing Hirayama against expansive albeit depopulated urban landscapes. Hirayama’s life, while largely solitary, is not hermetically sealed. Instead, it is punctuated by transient but meaningful encounters that ripple through his otherwise measured existence. These moments, understated yet deeply evocative, highlight how human connection—though often ephemeral—can leave an imprint, much like a footprint that remains briefly in the sand before the tide erases it. Wenders is careful not to frame these interactions as grand emotional revelations. Rather, they unfold quietly, slipping into Hirayama’s life without disrupting its rhythm yet subtly altering its texture. In one scene, Hirayama sits on a bench in a park, framed by towering skyscrapers that loom in the background. Another sequence sees Hirayama meticulously cleaning a public toilet tucked away in an urban alley and frames him within the rigid geometry of the surrounding buildings. The harsh verticality of the walls and the confined, sterile environment dwarf his figure thereby accentuating the contrast between his careful, intentional actions and the cold anonymity of the city. This underscores both his isolation and his quiet resilience in the face of an indifferent world. Elsewhere, he is further characterized against the visual expanse of the city that stretches endlessly before him, embodying the overwhelming scale of urban life and the quiet, contemplative space he carves for himself within it; whether he gazes out over Tokyo from the rooftop of a building, walks alone through a rain-drenched street at night, or stands amidst a sea of gravestones, each meticulously arranged and stretching into the horizon. In all of these wide- angle shots, Hirayama is situated as a solitary figure eclipsed by the vast city. This deliberate distancing evokes Heidegger’s notion of throwness—the feeling of being “thrown” into an overwhelming world, left to navigate one’s being in solitude.vi

Sound design also plays a key role in depicting Hirayama’s inner world as the ambient hum of the city contrasts sharply with the quiet spaces he inhabits, like the spotless public restrooms he cleans. These silences are not voids but spaces for introspection, allowing viewers to inhabit his solitude. His cassette tapes, which he listens to during his breaks, punctuate this silence, serving as both a companion and a marker of his individuality. The music—a blend of nostalgia and melancholy—mirrors his internal emotional landscape, connecting his seemingly mundane existence to a deeper, more universal resonance. Other times, the subtle sound of rustling leaves or distant birdsong interject stillness to harmonize the natural world amid the urban sprawl. This juxtaposition between the city’s mechanical hum and the organic sounds of nature underscores the tension between isolation and connection that permeates Hirayama’s life. Even in the absence of dialogue, the aural landscape expresses his exchange with his environment. These layers of sound posit his solitude to be a rich sensory experience that inclines viewers to reflect on the symphonic, often overlooked exigencies of everyday life. Mise-en-scène further underscores Hirayama’s existential solitude. His modest apartment, sparsely furnished with objects arranged in meticulous order, reflects his inward focus and self- sufficiency. The film’s lack of clutter and the muted colour palette impart how material simplicity can augment a sentiment of solitude through stillness. Soft, diffused lighting along with the cadence of breaths and rainfall foster an introspective air that tenders his solitude as a space for contemplation rather than despair or exclusion as he muses during his commute to work or when looking out of his apartment window. Hirayama finds dignity in his routine through meticulously arranging his belongings, from neatly folded towels to the placement of his cassette tapes, therein making his home a sanctuary of quiet rituals. Likewise, lingering shots of empty spaces accentuate the absence of others in proportion to the resonance these spaces hold. His environment becomes an extension of his inner world, with the silence between actions speaking akin to the actions themselves.

Respectively, solitude is neither tragic nor stagnant but complex, comprising reserve and resolve as well as enrichment, if not contentment. Hirayama’s solitude is marked by moments of connection, however brief, that hint at the precarious bonds that tie him to others. For instance, a brief exchange with a young woman in a bookstore—captured in a subtle close-up of their hands brushing as they reach for the same book—becomes a rare yet acute instance of shared humanity; and the odd albeit amicable exchanges he has with other service personnel. Or, when his niece, Niko (Arisa Nakano), suddenly appears after running away from his estranged sister, Keiko (Yumi Asō), and the two ride bikes together and enjoy the park. As they enjoy a dusky harbour view, Niko asks if he’d like to visit the ocean. “Next time,” Hirayama replies. Niko then asks when “next time” will be, to which Hirayama answers: “Next time is next time, and now is now.”vii This answer is neither disinterested nor evasive, and is in tune with the film’s ethos that connection, like existence itself, is not something to be grasped and held indefinitely but to be experienced as it unfolds. Likewise, Hirayama’s interactions with co-worker Takashi (Tokio Emoto) and girlfriend Aya (Aoi Yamada), though rooted in routine and transactional exchanges, underpin the film’s meditation on the transient yet meaningful nature of human connection. Takashi, younger and more distracted, serves as a foil to Hirayama’s meticulous approach to work. While Takashi scrolls through his phone and views the job as merely temporary, Hirayama remains methodical and takes quiet pride in his own labour. Their relationship is neither didactic nor emotionally demonstrative. Hirayama does not lecture Takashi, nor does Takashi seek guidance; but subtle moments of recognition pass between them. When Takashi insists on taking a photo of Hirayama, what might seem like a playful, passing gesture instead becomes an act of acknowledgment, a way to preserve a presence that might otherwise go unnoticed. In the same way, Aya represents yet another passing yet meaningful connection. When Takashi covertly slips one of Hirayama’s cherished cassettes into Aya’s purse, it is an act both mischievous and oddly intimate, a recognition of music’s ability to forge bonds. The following evening, Hirayama humours Takashi’s insistence that they appraise his cassette collection, though he refuses to part with them, and instead offers Takashi money to take Aya out. This gesture is less about charity than an affirmation of the young man’s longing to impress someone which Hirayama can appreciate. Later, when Aya catches up to Hirayama to return the cassette, she asks to play it one last time in his van before pressing a light, surprising kiss on his cheek. The moment startles Hirayama, but his expression stays in something beyond surprise—perhaps the quiet realization that even the smallest gestures, a song shared or a touch exchanged, hold meaning. Similarly, he connects with the ailing ex-husband of a proprietor whose restaurant he regularly visits, who entreats him to look after the restauranteur as a terminal illness prevents him from doing so—to which Hirayama cuts the tension before they go their separate ways. Though their conversation is brief, it carries an understanding between two men who, in their own ways, have learned to navigate solitude. The ex-husband, aware of his declining health, entrusts Hirayama with a simple yet weighty request—to look after the woman he once loved but can no longer care for. Rather than responding with sentimentality or lingering contemplation, Hirayama surmounts the melancholy by offering him a drink and inviting him to play shadow tag. Despite their differences and the brevity of their exchange, the two share a moment of humour and childlike joy. This moment, tender and playful, encapsulates the delicate balance of Perfect Days: acknowledging the gravity of human connection while embracing its lightness. The simplicity of these acts transcends language and circumstance to articulate that even in a life shaped by solitude, the prospect of connection remains. Like his ongoing, anonymous game of tic-tac-toe in the public restroom, these connections do not demand resolution or permanence; they simply exist, fleeting yet felt, echoing long after they pass. None of these exchanges dramatically alter Hirayama’s life, nor do they disrupt his solitude, but in their small and passing nature, they affirm his presence in the world. These connections, however ephemeral, serve as gentle reminders that even within a life defined by stillness, the possibility of being seen and acknowledged persists. Overall, Hirayama’s life resists resolution, unfolding in quiet rhythms where solitude and connection ebb and flow without a need for culmination. His exchanges are not driven by a pursuit of purpose or permanence. These moments, like his cassette tapes or routines, are not about striving toward an endpoint but about the act of presence itself. Wenders crafts a world where meaning is not found in grand gestures or definitive conclusions but in the lingering weight of impermanence; the way a song stays with you long after it’s stopped playing, the way a shared glance leaves a trace even as two people part ways. Ultimately, Perfect Days sustains that value is not contingent upon permanence; it exists in fragments, in transient impressions, in the quiet effect of what remains unspoken. It lingers, much like city lights on the horizon—never fully within reach, yet never entirely gone.