Wim Wenders’ Perfect Days (2023) and Jim Jarmusch’s Paterson (2016) are spiritual cousins, quiet films that find profound beauty in the simplicity of everyday life. Both focus on solitary men whose lives revolve around repetition and routine, yet instead of presenting their daily rhythms as monotonous, these films reveal them as deeply poetic. Their protagonists—Hirayama, a Tokyo public restroom cleaner, and Paterson, a New Jersey bus driver—navigate their days with a quiet attentiveness, transforming ordinary moments into something almost sacred.
Routine in both films is not a burden but a form of devotion. Hirayama begins each morning the same way: stretching, watering his plants, drinking canned coffee, and riding his bike to work while listening to old cassette tapes. His job, cleaning and maintaining Tokyo’s public restrooms, is carried out with a sense of care that elevates it beyond mere labor. Similarly, Paterson moves through his days with an unchanging rhythm—waking beside his wife, eating breakfast, driving his bus route, jotting down poetry in a notebook, and ending the evening at a neighborhood bar. Their lives are structured and predictable, yet rather than being trapped by routine, they seem liberated by it. There is a Zen-like acceptance in their repetition, as if they have discovered a kind of freedom within the ordinary.
Both films are deeply connected to their settings, treating Tokyo and Paterson, New Jersey, not just as backdrops but as living, breathing characters. Wenders’ Tokyo is a city of overlooked details—soft light filtering through trees, walls dappled with shadows, and restrooms that, in Hirayama’s hands, become small havens of cleanliness and order. Jarmusch’s Paterson is likewise filled with unnoticed poetry, from street conversations to the way objects subtly mirror each other. The city itself is part of Paterson’s creative process, much like the poetry of William Carlos Williams, whose work—rooted in observations of everyday life—serves as a guiding presence throughout the film. Both Wenders and Jarmusch elevate these urban landscapes, revealing the hidden beauty found in places most people pass without a second thought.
Silence and observation play key roles in both films. Dialogue is sparse, and what is left unsaid often carries as much weight as what is spoken. Hirayama barely talks, but his silences feel full, as if he is deeply listening to the world around him. Paterson, too, is a man of few words, channeling his thoughts into the poems he writes, which capture fleeting moments and small, seemingly inconsequential details that, in his eyes, contain the essence of life. Neither man is driven by ambition or external validation; their satisfaction comes from their own quiet engagement with the world. When Paterson’s notebook is accidentally destroyed, he does not respond with anger or despair but with an acceptance that aligns with his philosophy of creation—poetry is not something to possess but something to experience. Similarly, Hirayama’s life, stripped of unnecessary desires, is filled with a quiet joy, as if he has already found everything he needs.
Music provides another layer of expression in both films. Hirayama’s cassette tapes—featuring The Rolling Stones, The Velvet Underground, and Nina Simone—act as a window into his interior world, revealing a deep nostalgia and an unspoken past. Paterson’s poetry, though unaccompanied by a soundtrack, has a musical quality of its own, with a rhythmic, meditative flow that mirrors the gentle cadence of his days. These elements reinforce the films’ shared interest in the ways art, in its simplest forms, becomes intertwined with everyday existence.
Throughout Perfect Days and Paterson, small, seemingly random encounters leave lasting impressions. Hirayama’s quiet interactions—with a young girl fascinated by his photography, a homeless man, and his estranged sister—hint at a rich, unseen history and add depth to his otherwise solitary existence. Paterson, too, meets strangers who briefly but meaningfully connect with him, including a visiting Japanese poet who recognizes the spirit of William Carlos Williams in Paterson’s own writing. These fleeting connections remind us that even the most solitary lives are touched by others, that meaning is often found in unexpected, passing moments.
Both films conclude with quiet yet emotionally powerful moments. Perfect Days ends with Hirayama in his car, listening to Nina Simone’s “Feelin’ Good,” his usually serene face shifting through a range of emotions—perhaps longing, perhaps peace, perhaps something in between. In Paterson, after the loss of his poetry notebook, a chance encounter with the Japanese poet offers him a simple but profound reminder that poetry is not about possession but about presence. Neither film provides a conventional resolution because neither character is on a conventional journey. There is no great change, no dramatic revelation—only the continued flow of life.
Wenders and Jarmusch, both longtime chroniclers of wanderers and quiet observers, have crafted films that serve as cinematic meditations. They do not demand action but invite reflection, asking the viewer to slow down and see the world as their protagonists do. In Perfect Days and Paterson, meaning is not something to chase—it is something already present, waiting to be noticed. Through their stillness, these films remind us that poetry is everywhere, if only we take the time to look.
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