Media and Music: Hirayama and His Cassettes in “Perfect Days”

“Perfect Days” (2023), starring Kōji Yakusho as Hirayama, details the seemingly isolated life of a toilet cleaner. Through a steady routine and a love for the music on his cassettes, Hirayama finds meaning in the mundane.

Written by Joseph Gonzalez

Photo courtesy of Wim Wenders, Master Mind Limited, and Spoon Inc.

It isn’t always easy to get through the day and still find meaning in what you’ve seen and done a million times. The Japanese film “Perfect Days” is centered around a man doing his best — and mostly succeeding — at finding beauty in the mundane. A key part of his daily routine is sliding cassette tape into his van’s radio and listening to music as he drives. The music defines Hirayma’s psyche and is a vital element of his life. It adds color and meaning to the understated routine of his days.

Many might assume that Hirayama, a Japanese man in his sixties, is living a life filled with quiet despair. He lives a somewhat isolated life in Tokyo and works as a toilet cleaner for The Tokyo Toilet project, which built outdoor public restrooms designed by famous Japanese artists to symbolize Japan’s hospitality culture. His life is shaped by the repetition that comes from living alone and working a nine-to-five job. But, as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that Hirayama deeply appreciates the small variations that life offers.

In the film’s opening scenes, Hirayama is driving to work and inserts a cassette. The iconic opening guitar riff of “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals plays as the sun still rises over downtown Tokyo. The song’s mysterious, brooding tone matches the early morning calm. As Hirayama begins his work, the enchanting song echoes y in his mind as he quietly and methodically cleans the public restrooms. The track’s lyrics, telling the tale of a loss “down in New Orleans” serves as both a literal depiction of the sun rising and a more nuanced tale of temptation and destruction.To Hirayama, it may just be a nice song to start the day, but the song’s themes also hint at Hiryama’s painful past that is later revealed.

Later that day, he finds a lost child and brings him back to his mother, who barely acknowledges Hirayama. He watches defeatedly as the mother sanitizes her child’s hands because they touched his in a small but cutting moment. To unwind from the unsettling interaction, Hirayama eats his lunch in the park and photographs the dappled light coming through the trees above him.

When his long day of work is finished, he returns to his van and plays “Pale Blue Eyes” by The Velvet Underground. “Sometimes I feel so happy / Sometimes I feel so sad,” sings Lou Reed as Hirayama observes the world around him, capturing the layered emotion of his day. The song’s sentimental and melancholic sound mirrors his now layered mood and state of mind.

Everything about Hirayama is genuine, His choice of cassettes, his music choices, his movements — none of it is performative. He acts with authenticity with every move he makes in his day-to-day life. Hirayama loves the music in his tapes sincerely. He doesn't care about external factors like what people think of him, or his image. This authenticity is part of the alluring character of Hirayama. For example, when he reluctantly agrees to let his younger co-worker borrow his van to drive a hipster girl to a music shop, Hirayama riding in the back, the girl is fascinated by his cassette collection. She chooses Patti Smith’s “Redondo Beach,” which plays a reggae-influenced beat beneath Smith’s haunting voice. The hipster, Aya, looks the song up on her phone, mouthing along to the entrancing lyrics.

Further proving the importance of music in the protagonist’s life, at the music store Hirayama learns his cassette collection is worth over $100. “Cassettes are in fashion,” says the store cashier. But despite his co-worker’s pleading, Hirayama refuses to sell them. They’re not mere commodities to him, but companions.

At home, Hirayama has a simple life. He reads, tends to his plants, develops and admires his photos, and listens to music. His definition of a “perfect day” is sticking to a routine that he knows brings him joy.

On one of his days off, Hirayama, headphones in, lies on the floor and listens to “Perfect Day” by Lou Reed, the song that inspired the film’s title. As Reed’s piano and vocals swell, Hirayama closes his eyes and imagines the light shining through the trees. His daydream ends and later that day, he rides his bike to his favorite bar, where he drinks alone, the orchestral beauty of the song matching his quiet contentment. But, his peace and routine are disrupted when his young niece, Niko, shows up on the steps of his apartment after running away from home. 

In the early morning, Hirayama carefully walks through his living room to sneak past the sleeping Niko to leave for work, but she wakes up and asks him to take her along with him. As they drive, Hirayama plays “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison. The upbeat, joyous song where Morrison soulfully sings of a “brown eyed girl,” matches the mood Hirayama is in. He’s actually delighted by Niko’s presence.

“So this is a cassette tape? From way back?” Niko asks. “From way back,” Hirayama responds.

His cassettes also represent a nostalgia for the past and a version of himself he rarely shares. Through Niko, we get glimpses of his strained relationship with his family. That night, Niko’s mother comes to take her home. Based on her clothing, she is obviously of a higher class than Hirayama, dressed in business attire and chauffeured by a professional driver. Her visit with Hirayama is awkward and distant: “So this is where you live? I didn’t mean it in a bad way.” They stand outside Hirayama’s modest two-story apartment complex.

She quickly changes the subject, asking Niko to get her things, which Niko reluctantly does.

Before leaving, Hirayama’s sister asks him to visit their father in a nursing home. “He won’t act like he used to,” she says. Hirayama looks down and shakes his head.

As they pull away, Hirayama starts sobbing. He formed a meaningful bond with his niece, who disrupted his whole routine with a new level of excitement. But her visit also forced him to confront his painful family history.

The next section of the film is musicless as Hirayama struggles with confronting his past. Even in his van, he doesn’t put on any music.

The silence is jarring. The film starts to feel intentionally lifeless, mirroring his emotional low point. When his co-worker quits, he’s forced to work a double shift that day —  the only point in the film where he shows any kind of visible frustration.

Still, he doesn’t spiral., Hirayama perseveres and eventually things start to naturally turn around. A new co-worker is hired, and Hirayama begins to connect with others again, including a connection with an older man he meets by the river. The man, as it turns out, is the ex-husband of Hiryama’s bartender friend. Together, the two men share a brief, tender moment playing shadow tag. Later that night, Hirayama rides his bike home, lighter. He dreams of water.

The next morning, the music returns. In his drive to work, he plays “Feeling Good,” by Nina Simone. Her voice arrives before the music: “It’s a new dawn / It’s a new day / It’s a new life,” she sings as Hirayama starts his own day. The horns and steady piano swell. Teary-eyed, Hirayama looks just above the camera and smiles. He’s crying just as much as he’s smiling. As the song reaches its soaring orchestral climax, with Simone belting out, “I’m feeling good,” the film cuts to the sun rising over Tokyo. The image slowly fades to black.

The song and Hirayama’s reaction reflect his dedication to seeing beauty even when experiencing  pain. He’s overwhelmed by the totality of his emotions and his past experiences, but still, he chooses to move forward because, in the end, it's worth it. Hirayama’s cassettes are a reflection of his yearning for what once was. He only listens to music decades old, but it brings him peace in the here and now. The tapes define him, as does his quiet resolve.Hirayama’s journey in “Perfect Days” is an example of how music can give meaning to the seemingly mundane moments of life, and how routine, when done with care, can be its own form of grace.