Pleasantville is a 1998 fantasy film starring Tobey Maguire and Reese Witherspoon as a pair of teenage siblings from the 1990s who are magically transported into the black-and-white world of a 1950s TV sitcom. On the surface, it’s an imaginative, time-travel fantasy—but underneath the surface lies a message I believe is flawed and forcefully delivered.

In Pleasantville, everything is picture-perfect. The weather is always sunny and 75 degrees. The high school team always wins. Everyone is polite and cheerful. The town itself seems to exist in a closed loop: as one teacher explains, Main Street runs in a circle, and there’s nothing outside of it. It’s the epitome of the sanitized, idealized 1950s—a time of strict social roles, traditional values, and cultural conformity.

When the two teens enter this world, they quickly grow restless. Through their actions, Pleasantville begins to change. Books—once filled with blank pages—suddenly have text. People begin to feel real emotions, both joyful and painful. They fall in love, express grief, even commit acts of violence. As this transformation unfolds, color begins to replace black and white, symbolizing the shift from repression to emotional and creative freedom. Eventually, the entire town becomes vibrant and fully colored, reflecting its evolution into something closer to the real world.

Critics praised Pleasantville for its originality and symbolism. Many embraced its message—that real life, with all its messiness and complexity, is preferable to the neat, sanitized illusions of the past. But I didn’t agree with that message. In fact, I found it troubling—and not just because of personal taste. I felt it pushed a very narrow perspective onto viewers without leaving room for other valid experiences.

Blissfulness and escapism have long been part of why people watch movies and TV. In hard times, people often seek stories that help them feel comforted, safe, and hopeful. During the Great Depression, Hollywood pumped out feel-good musicals and comedies to lift people’s spirits. Even in the 1950s, beneath the post-war prosperity, people lived under the shadow of nuclear fear and social limitations. For many—especially people with disabilities—life can be isolating or painful. That’s why optimistic, uplifting media isn’t just a luxury; it’s a lifeline.

It’s also worth pointing out that the media of the 1950s wasn’t uniformly cheerful. There were dark, even violent, films and shows back then too—but they existed as part of a broader, more balanced media landscape. Importantly, those darker stories weren’t pushed aggressively. You could choose to watch them—or not.

By contrast, Pleasantville feels like an endorsement of the opposite extreme. It seems to champion sadness, conflict, and even violence as necessary elements of “real life,” while dismissing positivity as false or repressive. It frames the old world of Pleasantville as dull and lifeless (black and white) and the new, chaotic world as beautiful and free (in color). That dichotomy feels heavy-handed and, frankly, unfair to those of us who value peace and optimism.

This isn’t just philosophical. Studies have shown that constant exposure to violence and negativity in media can lead to desensitization, increased anxiety, and even aggression. For autistic people, in particular, this can be harmful. We already face challenges in navigating trust and social relationships. Watching a steady stream of abuse, betrayal, and violence in media doesn’t help—it often worsens those challenges. While Pleasantville doesn’t explicitly promote violence, it does seem to celebrate emotional upheaval and sadness as signs of growth. But for many of us, being surrounded by such emotions—especially when expressed explosively—can be deeply distressing.

To be clear, I’m not advocating for censorship or a return to some imagined “perfect” past. The 1950s had real, significant problems. Many people weren’t allowed to speak openly about their pain, and many stories went untold. We should continue making space for difficult, even dark, subject matter in our media. But we should also ensure that space exists for joy, kindness, and beauty. When a show is made about a killer or an abuser, there should also be one about someone who makes the world better.

We’re starting to see more variety now, thanks to streaming platforms and social media. Short-form content on YouTube and TikTok tends to be lighter and more uplifting. But mainstream films and TV dramas still often lean toward the violent and depressing, unless they’re explicitly made for children. We’ve begun reckoning with the negative effects of screen addiction and social media, but we haven’t yet reckoned with how prolonged exposure to violence and negativity in media affects our collective mental health.

I hope we do one day. And when we do, I hope we’ll remember that stories don’t have to be painful to be meaningful. They can also be comforting, hopeful, and kind—and those are just as real, and just as vital, as anything else.