I didn’t expect a film about a Japanese toilet cleaner to linger with me for days afterwards. But Perfect Days did exactly that — not through drama or big ideas, but through stillness, repetition, and attention.
Hirayama’s life is deliberately small. He wakes early, folds his bedding, waters his plants, plays cassette tapes on his drive to work. His days repeat with only minor variation. And yet, nothing feels empty.
This isn’t minimalism as an aesthetic. There are no white walls curated for Instagram. There’s wear, age, and quiet intention. Everything he owns seems chosen, kept, and used with care.
Edited, not deprived
One thing Perfect Days does beautifully is remove the usual assumption that having less means lacking something. Hirayama’s apartment is modest. His possessions are few. But the film never frames his life as something to escape from.
Instead, it feels edited — like a life that has been slowly decluttered of excess noise. There’s space for music, books, routine, and thought. Nothing competes for attention. Nothing shouts.
That idea resonates deeply in a world where even our downtime is crowded with notifications, content, and low-level urgency.
Doing one thing, properly
Hirayama cleans public toilets. He does it methodically, attentively, without resentment or haste. The work is ordinary, but his care elevates it.
There’s something grounding about watching someone do one job, well, without multitasking or optimisation. No productivity hacks. No side hustle. Just presence.
It quietly challenges the assumption that value must always scale — that meaning only comes from doing more or better or faster. Sometimes it comes from doing enough.
Solitude as a choice
Hirayama spends most of his time alone, but the film never treats this as loneliness. His solitude feels protective, intentional. His interactions with others are brief but human — unpolished, slightly awkward, real.
It made me reflect on how often we fill silence out of habit rather than need. How rarely we allow ourselves to just be with our thoughts, without distraction.
A quieter definition of a good life
Perfect Days doesn’t offer a manifesto. It doesn’t tell you to throw your phone away or move to a tiny apartment in Tokyo. What it does offer is a gentler question:
What if a good life doesn’t need to look impressive?
For anyone thinking about decluttering — digitally or otherwise — this film is a reminder that less isn’t about restriction. It’s about alignment. Removing what distracts so that what remains can be fully noticed.
Some days don’t need to be optimised. Some routines don’t need upgrading. Sometimes, repeating a small, decent life is enough.
And that might be the most quietly radical idea of all.
Here’s a Decluttered Bytes–style closing section you can drop straight in at the end:
Perfect Days isn’t asking us to live smaller lives — it’s asking us to live less cluttered ones.
Not every routine needs improving.
Not every moment needs capturing.
Not every gap needs filling.
Sometimes decluttering isn’t about removing objects, but about removing the pressure to constantly optimise ourselves. Keeping the parts of life that quietly work. Letting repetition be enough.
If there’s one thing worth taking from this film, it’s this:
a good day doesn’t have to be remarkable to be meaningful.
And maybe the most valuable thing we can declutter is the idea that more is always better.
