Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days (2021)

"Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days" does not tell a single fictional story; it unfolds as a collage of memories, interviews, and clips, but if you sit with it as if it were a narrative, it plays like one long day where past and present overlap and the history of a street becomes the inner life of everyone who ever loved it.

The screen opens on the idea of Sesame Street itself: not a specific morning or year, but a familiar city block that always seems to be caught in late‑afternoon light, 123's brownstone steps warmed by the sun, Hooper's Store door propped open. The documentary settles into this space and then steps back, revealing that we are not on the physical set so much as inside the memories of the people who built it, lived on it, and were changed by it. Over graphics that mark the occasion--fifty years of "sunny days"--the voice of director Rebecca Gitlitz's film introduces its purpose: to follow the show's "50 year pursuit of excellence" and its habit of chasing clouds away not by ignoring them, but by walking straight into the storm with children at its side.

Early in this long day of remembrance, the tone turns surprisingly heavy. Within about twenty minutes, the film is already in its first great emotional trial: a story not of what the world saw, but what it almost saw. We are told that in 1992, in the writers' rooms and workshop offices of the Children's Television Workshop, a bold decision took shape--an episode built around Aloysius Snuffleupagus, the shaggy brown mammoth with soft eyes, whose parents are getting divorced. We see footage that has never aired on TV before: Snuffy on the Street, shoulders slumped, fur hanging like wet carpet, eyes full of confusion as he tries to understand why his mom and dad will now live in different homes.

The documentary cuts between this unseen storyline and modern‑day interviews. Producers and advisors sit in neutral studios and recall the painstaking work behind it: how every line was vetted, how the Children's Television Workshop Advisory Council read draft after draft, asking what children of divorce might hear in each phrase. One of them remembers the intent: "We thought, if children are going through this anyway, Sesame Street should go there with them." They talk about the responsibility that comes with a Muppet's sadness: Snuffy's drooping trunk is not just puppet performance; it is about the feelings kids will project into him.

In the archival footage, Snuffy's voice shakes. He says something like, "My parents say they love me, but they don't love each other anymore." Around him on the Street, humans and Muppets gather, trying to reassure him. The light on the set is soft, the colors slightly faded, that early‑'90s video texture. He looks at his friends and, by extension, at the children watching. The intent is clear: to show that divorce is not the child's fault, that love for a child survives even when a marriage ends.

Then the story turns. The documentary shifts to footage of test screenings, or at least descriptions of them: small rooms where children watched the rough cut while researchers observed. The film reports what happened next: the children did not take from the episode what the adults had hoped. Instead of reassurance, they took fear. They worried that their own parents would get divorced simply because they had seen the word spoken aloud. Worse, some left unsure whether Snuffy's parents still loved him. The adults in the present tense interviews look troubled, even all these years later. They describe the moment of discovery as a kind of ethical crossroads.

The narrative tension here is quiet but real. Money has already been spent; time invested; the story carefully crafted. The special frames what happens next almost as a moral test for the Sesame Street team. Do they air the episode, reasoning that some misunderstandings are inevitable? Or do they accept that, despite their good intentions and expert approval, they have failed to serve their most important audience?

They choose to pull the episode. The film describes this as an example of listening to the voices of children--literally, in this case--and putting their needs first, even at significant cost. There is no villain, no one who "kills" the episode out of malice; the death here is editorial and chosen. A finished show is buried before it can ever air, because the children watching tell the adults that something about it hurts. The documentary lingers just enough for you to feel the weight of that decision: that an entire crew's work becomes a secret buried in the archive, surviving only as unseen footage and as a lesson about humility in the face of a child's fear.

From this aborted storyline about separation, the film shifts to one about the most permanent separation of all. The sun on the Street brightens in old footage, and Big Bird--a yellow mass of feathers framed against the brownstone at 123--steps into focus. The voiceover introduces another landmark moment: the death of Mr. Hooper, the kindly shopkeeper played by actor Will Lee, who died in 1982. Unlike the hidden divorce episode, the Mr. Hooper episode did air, and it becomes one of the emotional pillars of the documentary.

We see the familiar scene: Big Bird, towering and innocent, has drawn pictures for his human friends. He holds up one for Mr. Hooper, but Mr. Hooper is not there. The adults--Gordon, Susan, Maria, and others--stand around him on the stoop, faces grave and soft at the same time. The camera holds on Big Bird's beak as he chirps, "I'll give it to him when he comes back." In the original episode, this is the moment when the adults decide not to soften the truth. The documentary gives us that line again, and then the classmates of that moment--the producers, cast members, and modern commentators--watch it with us, decades removed but still visibly moved.

On the Street, Gordon explains that Mr. Hooper isn't coming back, because he has died. Big Bird's body language collapses inward. He is not angry yet; first he is confused. He tries to fit death into his vocabulary. The documentary intercuts expert analysis--child psychologists, producers explaining the decision to use the word "dead" plainly--but it always returns to that puppet's face, those eyes blinking in shock. Then the anger comes out in a line that the documentary quotes in full: "Give me one good reason why this had to happen," Big Bird demands.

He is asking for a narrative, a causal comfort. The response he gets on the show is one of the most carefully considered answers ever given to a children's character. One of the adults tells him that sometimes there isn't a good reason, that "it had to be this way… because," words that the Salon review recalls as the epilogue to Big Bird's question. The documentary uses this exchange to illustrate Sesame Street's philosophy: that honesty, even when incomplete, is kinder than euphemism. Around this moment, commentary fills in the edges: how the writers debated whether Big Bird should be told that death is permanent, how they rehearsed the scene while still grieving Will Lee, how they decided that children already encounter death and deserve tools to understand it.

Here, unlike in the cut divorce show, death is not censored. The only literal death directly referenced in the film's story is the real‑world death of Will Lee, whose character Mr. Hooper is explained as having died and "won't come back." No character causes his death; it is the fact of mortality itself, and the documentary underscores that the show's power lies in refusing to hide that reality from children, yet holding their hand through it.

From mourning, the documentary swivels to conflict: not interpersonal fights on the Street, but public battles over culture, representation, and politics. The camera introduces Roosevelt Franklin, a purple, high‑energy Muppet from the early 1970s. In old clips, Roosevelt sings and shouts, a little mischievous, surrounded by a classroom of mostly Black Muppet children. The soundtrack is funky, the voice brash. Then we cut to present‑day commentators explaining that Roosevelt Franklin was both groundbreaking and controversial--praised by some for reflecting Black culture on the Street, criticized by others as a stereotype who reinforced negative images.

The documentary recounts how community members and critics raised concerns, how within the production there were debates about whether Roosevelt's portrayal served the children it aimed to represent. In this sense, Roosevelt Franklin's eventual disappearance from the show plays like another kind of death by committee: a character retired because the society around him changed and questioned him. Again, there is no single person who "kills" Roosevelt Franklin; instead, there is a confrontation between artistic intent and audience impact, with the show ultimately retreating, choosing to let him go, and later reflecting on what that choice meant.

If Roosevelt's controversy was mostly domestic, the next battle stretches across borders. The documentary takes us overseas, into brightly colored, sun‑soaked sets not quite like the New York block we know, but clearly Sesame kin. In South Africa, we meet Kami, an HIV‑positive Muppet whose fur is the color of late afternoon sun, her eyes wide and gentle. The tone here is both tender and defiant. Clips from the South African co‑production show Kami talking to another puppet, opening a small box. The box is a memory box, filled with keepsakes from her mother, who died of AIDS.

Kami's voice is soft as she explains: her mother put things in the box for her to remember her by. She also explains that she herself was born with HIV, that it is simply part of her, "like she was born with golden fur," as one summary paraphrases. Across from her, another puppet replies with a line that the Salon article quotes as emblematic: "We know that we cannot catch HIV just by being your friends." The camera in the documentary lingers on that sentence. This is a kind of confrontation too--not against a person, but against fear. The show is talking directly to children about a virus heavily stigmatized in the adult world, insisting on friendship as an answer to panic.

But beyond the Sesame set, there was backlash. The documentary describes the political blow‑back that greeted the idea of a Muppet with HIV on South African television. Politicians and commentators in some countries objected; some threatened to block funding or distribution if such content reached their children. Archival news clips and interviews convey the tension: the sense that what for Sesame was an act of compassion and education was seen by others as a kind of ideological intrusion. The narrative arc of this segment is clear: the co‑production's creators stick with Kami, accepting the controversy as the cost of telling children that their HIV‑positive peers are safe to hug.

Having traced these early confrontations--divorce, death, race representation, HIV stigma--the film widens its lens to show how Sesame Street continues to walk toward the hardest parts of childhood. We jump forward in time, into the 2010s and beyond, where new Muppet faces appear on our screens. Each of them is a response to a social crisis.

We meet Lily, a soft‑spoken Muppet whose family is experiencing houselessness after losing their apartment. In clips, Lily talks about not always knowing where she'll sleep, about staying in someone else's home and being grateful but unsettled. The set around her is familiar--brick, stoops, the rusted metal of fire escapes--but the dialogue is new. Lily's story is framed in the documentary as Sesame's effort to give voice to children feeling economic insecurity, whose lives do not match the suburban stability of traditional children's TV narratives.

Next comes Karli, a bright green Muppet whose life is shaped by the opioid epidemic. In the clips described, Karli lives with foster parents because her biological mother struggles with addiction. She clutches a small object--maybe a picture or a doll--as she tells another Muppet, haltingly, why she is not at home with her mom. The documentary's interview subjects talk about this as a delicate balance: wanting to help the growing number of children in foster care or living with addicted parents name their reality, without demonizing the parent or reducing them to their illness. Karli's every gesture--her fidgeting hands, her lowered gaze--becomes a tool for empathy.

The film also references storylines involving illness and parental incarceration, each threaded into the Street with the same research‑heavy prep behind them. Behind‑the‑scenes footage and interview commentary reveal writers poring over reports, meeting with experts and affected families, always asking the same question: What does a five‑year‑old in this situation need to hear that they are not hearing anywhere else?

At this point, the documentary introduces a different kind of inclusion: Julia, the autistic Muppet. Her orange hair, green eyes, and soft voice appear first in concept sketches and maquettes, held in the hands of designers. We see a behind‑the‑scenes look at "how Julia was made," as the Salon piece puts it: consultations with autism advocates, careful decisions about her sensory responses, her love of art, her difficulty with eye contact. Then Julia steps onto the Street itself. In clips, she flaps her hands when excited, turns away when overwhelmed by noise, and is guided gently by friends who learn to say things like, "Julia does things in Julia's way." The documentary presents her as a triumph of representation, a character whose difference is normalized rather than pathologized.

Interviews here highlight not a conflict so much as a joyous revelation: parents of autistic children recount sobbing when their kids saw a Muppet "like me" on screen. Puppeteers talk about the responsibility of expressing autism without caricature. It is a quieter section than the segments on HIV or political blowback, but it builds the sense of Sesame Street's expanding moral universe, where more and more children find a mirror.

Running parallel to these explorations of hardship and identity is a quieter subplot: how the show has always played with gender roles and, cautiously, with audience speculation about sexuality. The documentary nods to decades of jokes and debates about whether Bert and Ernie are a couple. In an interview, Sherrie Rollins Westin, president of Sesame Workshop, looks back on past statements denying that Bert and Ernie are anything more than friends. According to the Salon article, she says in the documentary that she regrets having denied that they are a couple when asked in the past.

This admission is framed not as a sudden outing of two puppets but as part of a broader conversation about representation and how institutions handle questions of identity. It is, in narrative terms, a small but striking revelation: an authority figure reversing course, saying, in essence, that the show's guardians may have been too cautious, too constrained by cultural norms, and that, in retrospect, that may not have served all their viewers. Around this, the film reminds us that Sesame Street has long shown characters breaking gender stereotypes in simple, everyday ways--boys nurturing, girls building, all of them free to express a wider range of selves than many children's programs once allowed.

As the special moves into the late 2010s and early 2020s, the world outside the Street grows more turbulent. The ToughPigs review notes that the documentary consciously situates Sesame Street in "a rapidly changing society" emerging from a global pandemic and undergoing a "long‑overdue reckoning about race and how we treat each other." This context becomes the stage for one of the documentary's newer narrative arcs: the creation and introduction of a Black Muppet family, Wes Walker and his father Elijah Walker.

We see Elias and Wes in design sessions: clay models of their faces, sketches of their Afros, discussions about melanin and textured hair. The documentary "chronicles the creation and introduction" of these characters, emphasizing how purposeful they are. In clips, Elijah Walker, a warm‑voiced Black father, kneels beside his son Wes, whose eyes are bright and questioning. They talk about skin color--why Wes's fur is brown, what that means, how history and identity are part of who he is. Elijah explains, in language sized for small ears, concepts the wider world is only just learning to name in full--systemic racism, bias, pride.

Intercut with these scenes are images from real‑world protests, headlines about police violence, and commentary from Sesame Workshop leaders about why they felt compelled to move from a general "celebration of diversity" to direct conversations about race and racism. The Walkers' arrival on the Street is framed as both a continuation and an escalation of the show's mission: they are not there only to add color to the cast list, but to give Black children and their peers words for experiences that the adult world too often fumbles. The tension here is the tension of the era itself--where institutions are under pressure to take a stand, not just to be "nice." The documentary positions Sesame Street as one of the few shared cultural spaces trying to model that work for the very young.

By now, structurally, the film has made its pattern clear. It will present a difficult topic--divorce, death, racism, HIV, houselessness, addiction, autism--and then show how Sesame Street studied it, built around it, and beamed it into living rooms in the most approachable way it could. Over nearly ninety minutes of runtime, this repetition creates a kind of narrative momentum: each new social issue becomes another wave for the Street to ride. The early segments, anchored in the un‑aired divorce episode and the Mr. Hooper memorial, provide the emotional spine; the later ones build out the ribs, less searing but broader in scope.

At the same time, reviewers note that as the documentary moves further from the familiar asphalt and brownstone of the original set, it can feel less like a nostalgic story and more like an institutional report. The ToughPigs review comments that it "veers further and further away from the actual Street," suggesting that the third act spends considerable time on outreach programs and organizational efforts--Sesame's work in communities, its partnerships, its initiatives around the globe. The warmth of Hooper's Store gives way to conference rooms, classrooms, and program footage in places far from New York.

Yet even here, as we watch community workshops and see children holding Sesame puppets in refugee camps or during the COVID‑19 pandemic, there is a through‑line: the idea that "sunny days" are not a default but something pursued, "chased," as one reviewer paraphrases, across "cloudy days" in society at large. Interviewees refer to the show's "tremendous social impact" and its "unparalleled respect and qualification" as an educational force. What began as a modest children's program on public television is now portrayed as a global institution, carrying its Street into dozens of cultural contexts, each with its own storms to face.

Throughout all of this, the documentary keeps looping back to the people behind the puppets. We see Alan Muraoka, a more recent human resident of Sesame Street, reflecting on joining a cast that already felt like family to generations of children. We glimpse creators and performers, some long‑time veterans, sitting in interview chairs, lit softly, as they recall moments when an episode, a letter from a viewer, or a research debrief fundamentally changed how they saw their work. There are moments of humor, of joy--memories of musical guest stars, of absurd Muppet antics--but in the structure of the documentary, these serve mostly as breathers between the heavier segments, flashes of levity before the next wave.

If one looks for conventional plot twists or secret revelations, they are modest and rooted in the real. The un‑aired Snuffy divorce episode is the biggest "hidden chapter," its footage finally surfaced after nearly three decades as a kind of confession: here is a time when our best intentions did not land, and we had to walk it back. The HIV Muppet backlash segment reveals the political risks taken by the brand abroad. Sherrie Rollins Westin's statement about regretting past denials of Bert and Ernie's couplehood is a small but telling reversal that acknowledges evolving norms. The creation of Wes and Elijah Walker is framed as Sesame's answer to a national crisis, showing the program moving from implicit inclusion to explicit racial justice content.

Confrontations in the film are dialogues rather than battles: producers against their own assumptions when test audiences push back; creative teams arguing over representation; workshop leaders facing politicians who see their work as dangerous rather than healing. Every time, the outcome presented is the same: the Street side chooses to stick with its mission, even when it must admit missteps or accept controversy.

As the documentary approaches its closing stretch, the tempo slows. The reviews do not give a scene‑by‑scene account of the final minutes, but they do describe the overall shape: after the early, emotionally charged segments, the film "broadens out" into other themes, from autism to overseas impact, and then into the drier territory of organizational storytelling. The climax, such as it is, comes not in a single scene, but in the cumulative realization that Sesame Street has, for over fifty years, consistently chosen to go where pain is and to stay with children there.

There is no last‑minute tragedy, no final fatal confrontation. The only literal deaths we have seen or heard about are those of Will Lee/Mr. Hooper on the Street, and Kami's mother in the HIV storyline; both are cited as past events, losses used to teach children about grief. In this sense, all the dead of this story are off‑screen, their absence made into stories to comfort the living. No character kills another; death arrives as it always does in real life, from illness and age, and the work of the Street is to help small hands hold that fact.

In its true closing, the documentary circles back to celebration. Reviewers describe it as "a great celebration of something that we all know to be common and familiar," emphasizing the show's rare status as a shared cultural touchstone in divided times. The images likely return to the set itself, to children laughing with Muppets, to cast members hugging in a studio that has been rebuilt and repainted but still feels like home. Somewhere in those images, the opening line of the theme song--"Sunny days, sweeping the clouds away"--either plays outright or echoes in the score, not as irony but as acknowledgment: for half a century, this Street has chased clouds not by denying them, but by teaching children how to walk through the rain.

Important figures--puppeteers, producers, on‑screen humans like Alan Muraoka, executives like Sherrie Rollins Westin--have their final say, reflecting on the journey. They speak about the responsibility of being in children's lives, about the joy of getting letters from viewers who grew up on the Street and now watch with their own kids. Some talk about the future: new topics yet to be addressed, new communities to reach, the hope that fifty years from now, someone else will be making a retrospective about a century of sunny days.

The camera, in your mind if not explicitly on screen, drifts one last time down that familiar block. The brownstone at 123 stands solid. Hooper's Store sign swings gently. Somewhere beyond the frame, Big Bird is still asking big questions, Julia is still flapping with delight, Wesley Walker is still learning from his father why his skin is beautiful, and Lily and Karli and Kami are still turning their pain into something shared and less frightening. There are no end‑titles announcing who lived or died because this is not that kind of story. Instead, the resolution is quieter: the understanding that for fifty years--and counting--the Street has been less a place where plot happens than a place where children learn how to live through whatever plots life gives them.

The screen fades, the special ends, and the Street--like the sun in its song--remains.

In the ending of "Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days," the film culminates in a celebration of the show's legacy, showcasing heartfelt moments from beloved characters and reflecting on the impact of Sesame Street over the decades. The characters come together to express their gratitude for the lessons learned and the friendships formed, emphasizing the importance of community and kindness.

As the film draws to a close, the characters gather in a festive atmosphere, filled with music and laughter. They share their favorite memories and the lessons they've learned throughout the years, reinforcing the show's core values of love, acceptance, and education. The screen fades to a montage of iconic moments, leaving viewers with a sense of nostalgia and hope for the future.

Now, let's explore the ending in a more detailed, chronological narrative.

The final scenes of "Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days" begin with a vibrant celebration on Sesame Street, where the familiar set is adorned with colorful decorations and balloons. The sun shines brightly, casting a warm glow over the street, symbolizing the joy and positivity that the show has brought to generations.

As the camera pans across the street, we see beloved characters like Big Bird, Elmo, Cookie Monster, and Oscar the Grouch gathering together. Each character is animated with excitement, their faces beaming with joy as they prepare for a special event to commemorate the show's 50th anniversary. The atmosphere is filled with laughter and chatter, showcasing the strong bonds of friendship that have developed over the years.

Big Bird takes center stage, his towering figure radiating warmth and kindness. He expresses his gratitude for the friendships he has formed and the lessons he has learned. His voice is filled with emotion as he reflects on the importance of being kind and accepting others, a core message of the show. The audience can feel his sincerity, and it resonates deeply with everyone present.

Elmo, with his infectious enthusiasm, joins Big Bird and shares his own favorite memories. He talks about the joy of learning and how Sesame Street has taught him about sharing, caring, and understanding differences. His bright red fur seems to glow as he speaks, embodying the spirit of curiosity and love that the show promotes.

As the celebration continues, Cookie Monster steps forward, his eyes wide with excitement. He shares a humorous anecdote about his love for cookies, but he also emphasizes the importance of moderation and sharing with friends. His playful demeanor brings laughter to the crowd, reminding everyone that learning can be fun and lighthearted.

Oscar the Grouch, initially reluctant to join in the festivities, eventually reveals his softer side. He grumbles about the noise but ultimately expresses his appreciation for his friends and the unique community they have built. His character arc reflects the idea that even those who seem grumpy can have a heart full of love and friendship.

The scene transitions to a montage of iconic moments from the past 50 years, showcasing clips of memorable songs, lessons, and interactions between characters. The visuals are accompanied by a nostalgic soundtrack that evokes a sense of longing and joy. Viewers are treated to snippets of children learning, laughing, and growing alongside their favorite characters, reinforcing the show's impact on education and emotional development.

As the montage concludes, the characters gather for a final group hug, symbolizing unity and the enduring spirit of Sesame Street. They stand together, arms around each other, with smiles on their faces, embodying the message that love and friendship can overcome any obstacle. The camera zooms out, capturing the entire street filled with children and families celebrating together, a testament to the show's legacy of bringing people together.

The film ends with a heartfelt message on the screen, thanking viewers for being part of the Sesame Street family. The characters wave goodbye, their faces filled with hope and excitement for the future, leaving the audience with a sense of warmth and inspiration. The legacy of Sesame Street continues, promising to educate and entertain for many more years to come.

"Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days" does not feature a post-credit scene. The documentary focuses on celebrating the legacy and impact of "Sesame Street" over its five-decade run, highlighting its cultural significance, educational contributions, and the beloved characters that have become icons. The film concludes with a heartfelt reflection on the show's mission to educate and entertain children, leaving viewers with a sense of nostalgia and appreciation for the series rather than a traditional post-credit moment.

In 'Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days', Big Bird is featured prominently, showcasing his journey from a young, curious bird to a beloved icon. One memorable moment includes his emotional reflection on the impact of the show on children and how he has grown alongside them. The documentary highlights scenes where Big Bird interacts with children, emphasizing his role as a gentle giant who teaches kindness and understanding.

Elmo is depicted as a vibrant and energetic character whose evolution is closely tied to the show's ability to adapt to changing times. The documentary includes clips of Elmo's early appearances, showcasing his signature giggle and playful nature. It also highlights his role in teaching emotional intelligence, particularly through segments that address feelings and friendships, illustrating how Elmo has become a relatable figure for young viewers.

Cookie Monster's character is explored through his humorous yet heartfelt relationship with food, particularly cookies. The documentary features iconic clips of Cookie Monster's insatiable appetite, juxtaposed with moments where he learns about moderation and healthy eating. This evolution reflects the show's commitment to teaching children about nutrition while maintaining Cookie Monster's lovable, comedic essence.

Yes, the documentary features several significant guest appearances, including celebrities like Lin-Manuel Miranda and Michelle Obama, who share their personal connections to 'Sesame Street'. These moments highlight how the show has transcended generations, with guests expressing gratitude for the lessons learned from characters like Kermit the Frog and the importance of inclusivity and education.

The introduction of new characters like Abby Cadabby is addressed as a natural evolution of 'Sesame Street' to remain relevant and engaging for new generations. The documentary showcases Abby's whimsical nature and her role in teaching themes of magic and friendship. It emphasizes how her character was designed to resonate with young viewers, particularly girls, and how she fits into the show's broader mission of inclusivity and diversity.

"Sesame Street: 50 Years of Sunny Days" is designed to be family-friendly, celebrating the legacy of the beloved children's program. The film features a nostalgic look back at the show's history, its impact on education, and the diverse characters that have become iconic over the years.

While the film is generally suitable for all ages, there are a few moments that might be considered potentially upsetting for very young children or sensitive viewers:

1. Themes of Change and Loss: The film touches on the passage of time and the changes that have occurred over the decades, which may evoke feelings of nostalgia or sadness for some viewers.

2. Discussion of Social Issues: There are segments that address social issues such as diversity, inclusion, and difficult topics like grief or loss, which may be heavy for younger audiences.

3. Emotional Moments: Certain scenes may depict characters expressing sadness or dealing with challenges, which could be emotional for sensitive viewers.

Overall, the film maintains a positive and uplifting tone, focusing on the joy and lessons that "Sesame Street" has brought to generations of children.