Perfect Days and a cheap holiday wine

My first introduction to Wim Wenders was through his elegiac – and intensely romantic – ode to humanity Wings of Desire; the story of two angels Damiel and Cassiel who roam above 1980s Berlin, studying the mortal souls below, dissecting their emotions and thoughts like psychiatrists examining their patients. That is, until Damiel falls for a beautiful trapeze artist. To be with her, he contemplates giving up his divine status, submitting himself to the corporeal imperfections and fallibilities of actually living.

Over 30 years later, Wenders has made one of his finest features to date and it's yet another meditation on the joys of humanity – only in reverse. Perfect Days centres upon Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho), a reserved man who wakes at dawn and drives to his job as a public toilet cleaner listening to cassette tapes of songs from The Kinks, Velvet Underground and Patti Smith. 

Rather than roaming the skies above, Hirayama is on his hands and knees scrubbing toilets, largely unnoticed by the more gentile neighbourhood he works in, including his young and juvenile co-worker Takashi who loves to rate everything, from people to places, out of 10.

For Hirayama, however, his view on life is qualitative rather than quantitative: he sees harmony in the light shining through the trees above as he eats his sandwich; beauty in the homeless man dancing in the park; and joy in the nought-and-crosses game he plays with a mysterious visitor of the toilets he cleans. Speaking of which, the toilets themselves are diamonds in the rough: Hirayama takes pride in ensuring every inch of the bathrooms are shining. We watch Hirayama simply live day by day, like an ascetic Groundhog Day. His routine is almost ritualistic; every waking moment, car ride and toilet scrub is sacred. 

The film encapsulates the Japanese notion of ‘komorebi’ which translates to ‘sunlight leaking through the trees’ – the image of dancing beams through the swaying foliage, encapsulating the idea of human connection to nature; the art of simply existing. We see this concept frequently in the film as Hirayama bathes himself in light just as much as he does in the onsen (a public bath).

It’s refreshing to see Wenders embrace this Japanese perspective in his dialling down of esoteric philosophy and instead using the medium of film – trusting Franz Lustig’s use of colours, light, and imagery – to make the audience feel the message it's trying to convey, rather than have it described to them. It's beautiful, joyous filmmaking.

The simplicity and blissfulness of Perfect Days made me think of my childhood; specifically, the holidays to sunny Spain with my family. My mum would always buy a bottle of Viña Sol, a simple and cheap white wine made from parellada and grenache blanc, to take back to the hotel or villa. I would take small sips in the afternoons and feel nothing but content.

I tried it again for the first time during the UK’s heatwave last summer. The sun was beating down with a ferocious heat, and when I saw the bottle on offer for £6, I couldn’t resist buying some plastic cups and drinking it in the park with friends – it was simple, fresh and summery, full of white peach, green apple and honeydew melon. 

Opened on a dreary grey day, I can’t imagine I would be overly impressed but there’s something about it when the weather warm: the label that I don’t think has changed in a decade, the reliability and modesty of it, and the funny way my mum tried to pronounce its name. It reminds me of those holidays, just appreciating being in the sea and the sand. 

I’ve tried far more outstanding wines than this one, but this has been the only bottle that brings me utter, unadulterated joy. I’m not sure if heading to Tesco’s and grabbing a cheap bottle of white is the message Wenders specifically wanted to get across, but it’s the one I’ve decided to take away.

Perfect Days is in cinemas and on the streaming service Mubi. Viña Sol is available in most major supermarkets, although currently on offer at £6.50 for Tesco Clubcard holders.