routine

Starts like the first chapter of a Murakami novel. Mundane daily life set out in patient detail. I was waiting for a talking cat to turn up. Wenders luxuriates in the routine instead. The cassettes, the sandwich on the same bench, the photographs nobody else will see, the tree seedlings.

The second half fills the character of Hirayama in without explaining him. His niece’s arrival nudges the routine sideways; his sister’s subsequent appearance hints at a complicated backstory. When she asks whether he really cleans toilets for a living, the nod he gives back is confident, proud, and tells you more than the tears that follow. The music is great; every cassette feels like a deliberate choice rather than a needle-drop for the sake of it.