i h8 ai 2oo" Script

Hey all. I wrote this script today in response to a recent short film made by filmmaker Aneesh Chaganty, a filmmaker I generally really like, promoting Meta's new filmmaking AI tool. I absolutely hate it, and I needed to express why. I'm thinking of turning this into a video but I wanted to share the script with you all now.

Here is the original video that I'm responding to for context - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iIQHZ19El4

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I hate AI. 

I watch the rise of artificial intelligence like a shadow seeping across a canvas, erasing strokes of color and detail. AI is touted as innovation, a means to refine, to optimize, but what is optimization when it sterilizes human expression? Plagiarism becomes more than just stealing; it’s a blind collage of past inspirations stripped of context and meaning. Jobs disappear, and livelihoods are replaced by the eerie predictability of algorithms - ghosts taking over spaces meant for the living.

In LA’s strikes—WGA, SAG, and soon, perhaps, Animation Guild—a battle rages for the soul of Hollywood. Studios, now more like tech giants, push to strip art of its humanity. They envision dead actors revived endlessly by CGI, performances built from digital scraps of past roles rather than crafted based on years of experience for the story they are in. Actors just starting out are scanned once, used forever. A writer alone editing words spit out by a machine trained on all the scripts that have come before instead of engaging in the dance of ideas with other writers. Voice actor's voices stolen and reused after only a single recording session. Animation reduced to regurgitation. It’s not just jobs AI erases; it severs human connections. Men like David Zaslav and Bob Iger don’t care about what art says—just that it sells, just that numbers rise. To them, art is not a voice, but a product. 

But Art isn’t a product; it’s a conversation, a shared experience… a reflection. 

Director Aneesh Chaganty’s short film i h8 AI becomes a strange, distorted mirror of this exact tension between regurgitation and conversation. Meta funded the film to promote their foray into the film industry with Movie Gen, an AI model that uses text inputs to generate video and sound for films  —because if studios are acting as tech companies, why can’t actual tech companies get into the game? Chaganty was paid to create a film using Movie Gen; thus, we have i h8 AI.

The film opens with Chaganty sharing his fears about AI, set against images of Hollywood’s strikes. But he never digs deep—his worries abstract, quickly overshadowed by curiosity. He recalls a message he sent to his father, imagining how he might’ve used AI as a kid. Could it have smoothed out his homemade films that he made with his brothers as a kid, inspired by the works of M. Night Shymalan? Could AI have swapped clumsy costumes for slick visuals, a messy garage for a gleaming bank vault? The question lingers: could AI have helped him dream bigger? 

At the end, Chaganty imagines AI helping childhood him dream bigger, represented visually by a cosmic, AI-generated sci-fi sky replacing his hometown's skyline from his childhood movies. 

[LINGER ON THAT BEAT]

It’s a seductive idea; one Changanty seems to be the perfect person to ponder. Chaganty’s work is built on exploring the delicate bond between tech and humanity. His breakout short, Seed, shot entirely on Google Glass, began as a tech demo but was, in truth, an intimate story of culture and family—Chaganty filmed himself delivering pregnancy news from the US to India by hand - a human touch connection of time, distance, and family for that could have been sent by e-mail - yet a story shown a then new piece of technology. His features, Searching and Run, are thrillers set entirely within digital screens, where characters piece together missing loved ones' lives through their digital fragments - discovering truths they never knew. For Chaganty, tech has always expanded human stories, not reduced them. AI, he wonders, could do the same. 

This idea echoes a tradition of artists using new tools to reshape storytelling. From the dawn of cinema, technology has driven stories forward—from the Lumière brothers to A Trip to the Moon, from Metropolis to Star Wars, from Pixar to The Matrix. Each technological leap pushed imagination's boundaries, revealing worlds we couldn’t have imagined. But at the heart of these digital marvels was always a human pulse-  someone with a burning need to connect.

The Matrix wasn’t about bullet time; it was about Neo transcending an oppressive system by chasing the discomfort he felt inside his soul - making him able to stop even bullets. Pixar's tales were about wrestling with lost childhoods, not how revolutionary the CGI was. Star Wars embodied rebellion against empire, while Metropolis captured a longing for revolution. Even the first films of trains or distant lands weren't just spectacles; they revealed the humanity that inhabited them. Every story was a filmmaker’s attempt to express something deeply felt, a technology-enabled spark. Without that human spark, films become hollow spectacles, beautiful but empty. Aesthetics eclipse meaning as spectacle drowns the soul.  Technology helped us dream, it did not dream for us.

But AI doesn’t dream; it regurgitates. 

Chaganty’s childhood footage of a Walmart-bought costume is more evocative than any AI-generated alien because it was unique. It tells a story—of a kid who dreamed of making films with whatever he had, creating worlds out of his own backyard - not the same generic alien I’ve seen a billion times before in other movies. It shows us the real human that tried to make this art - not some generic apocalyptic idea I’ve seen a billion times. Chaganty’s footage shows us the human who tried to make it, AI erases it. 

We crave human connection in art—not just in the stories we watch but in their making. Why do we celebrate Tom Cruise’s real stunts in Mission Impossible or relive Viggo Mortensen breaking his foot in Lord of the Rings? Why do tales of scrappy filmmakers defying odds, DVD extras recounted decades later, and conventions filled with creators draw us in? Because we long for the passion, the sweat—the story of creation itself. We want to hear about friendships formed, challenges overcome, and discoveries made in the creative process—a process richer than even dreams can imagine.

As a kid, connection felt distant, my thoughts lost in a fog of difference. Autistic, misunderstood, and grappling with my body and gender, I struggled to express myself—even to myself. Filmmaking became my bridge. It wasn’t about polish; it was my soul laid bare. I started with Doctor Who music videos, learning editing’s power to reshape feelings—like my belief in the Tenth Doctor and Rose. I made Star Trek fan films, seeing myself as the alien Other, directing stick-figure animations with friends’ voices. I even staged a rock concert in an empty auditorium with Rock Band gear—finding ways to frame shots, direct live-action, and, at last, make friends - even if none of them were very good actors.

I learned to act by playing a woman onstage in my school play—wearing a dress before the whole town. It revealed something deeper about myself, even if no one noticed. With each project, I sharpened my skills, finding my voice through film and striving to do better. As I grew, so did my relationships. My classmates began to respect me, drawn to the joy of creating together. By my later school years, I was bullied less, often asked to help with class projects. I was seen, my heart heard—my dream of being understood made real.

There was a truth inside me I needed to express—to myself and to others. The joy of an artist is to share a feeling so vivid, so real, that you want others to feel its ecstasy too. It’s about taking the ineffable and making it real, together. It’s about connection, about knowing you’re not alone, and realizing others want the same dream to come true. In the process of creating, I discovered myself and found connection.

AI erases the process. Tech bros claim they're making art, but all they’ve done is type prompts. They crave the end result without the act of creation—inputting words, then calling it done. It’s creation without the soul of making. 

The process of turning dreams into reality is messy—born of personal history, limited resources, and wild, reckless hope. The broken Jaws shark led to more suspense; a weary Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark gave us the iconic gunshot scene. These moments exist because humans adapt, dreaming within constraints to create something unexpected, something greater. It’s how we learn about ourselves, each other, and how to make dreams real.

Making my own movie, IDENTITEAZE was a revelation—working with a mostly queer crew felt like a collective exhale, a dream made real. It wasn’t just my story; it was a mosaic of shared passion. I remember our first Zoom call after we hired all our department heads, seeing all the artists we’d brought together. It hit me then: my role as director was to let their art, their humanity, shine on screen - weaving all our diverse visions into a shared, beautiful dream. 

We inspired each other, choosing to uplift one another. In that brief time, we created not just a film, but a glimpse of a utopian future - not on camera but behind the scenes—a world built on connection, not power. It couldn’t last; it never does. But we dreamed it, proved it could exist. A world where we made something greater than ourselves.

Art is the tool of the hurting, a desperate reach to feel less alone. It’s a dream of a world where they belong, created in microcosm through the act of making—a fleeting glimpse of a possible future, proof that it can be real. This is the human connection we crave.

AI rips the artist from the art, destroying the worlds they create—both on screen and behind the scenes. In i h8 AI, Chaganty marvels at AI’s slick effects, but beneath that awe is a deeper wound. The same day I wrote this, Disney announced an AI initiative to replace special effects artists—an industry already gutted by overwork, slashed pay, and relentless undercutting. Just look at the sloppy CGI Marvel churns out, the result of brutal conditions forced upon VFX artists. AI only amplifies that destruction.

Visual effects work is art—look at Blade Runner 2049, crafted by hands that cared, by artists who poured their souls into bringing another artist’s vision to life. But capitalists like Elon Musk, who steal these images to sell products, or Bob Iger, who crushes artist jobs without a second thought, see none of that. To them, art is a product to be processed, mashed into a bland paste for uninspired, generic slop.

The artists who’ve endured brutal hours, impossible deadlines, and low pay are now being replaced by algorithmic junk—shapeless amalgamations of everything, new to nothing. There is no vision, no passion, no humanity. Just prompts typed into a machine. Disney claims its new AI initiative will create jobs, but they’ll be jobs for soulless drones, not for creators. It’s not about fostering new dreams but stamping them out, reducing artistry to mindless button-pushing.

What they want isn’t art—it’s compliance. They replace artists with cogs, strip away the beauty of creation, and call it progress. But it’s not progress; it’s erasure. A world built on echos of the past can never be a world of dreams of a tomorrowland. 

Tech bros say AI analyzing art is like human inspiration—but it’s not. Dreams come from seeing the world, from personal inspirations like Star Trek for me or M. Night Shyamalan for Chaganty, mixed with our own thoughts, contexts, and lived experiences. It’s an alchemy of unexpected collisions. What emerges is uniquely ours, shaped by our past, present, and hopes for the future—a world only we can see. Artists bring these visions to life together, hoping to spark new dreams. IDENTITEAZE exists because I loved Star Trek, because I am trans, and because a crew shared that journey. It’s a creation born of a singular time, place, and being.

AI can’t do that. It’s not inspiration—it’s mathematics without context, without passion, without the mess of living. It merely recycles our past mistakes, biases, and flaws. It can’t create something truly new, something that dreams, something that envisions the future.

But human creativity is wild. It’s a child pretending he created a rock concert in an empty auditorium with Rock Band instruments or a backyard becoming a wild apocalypse. It’s ridiculous, cringey, and wonderful. These works are often from the seeds of the biggest dreams. It’s only as adults when our dreams are made smaller by the limitations of the society that we living in and understand better, and believe ourselves confined by - when in truth our dreams are still capable of being bigger than ever. 

When Chaganty released i h8 AI, he proudly shared that his mom had saved and digitized his childhood films—shaky, clumsy footage that she’d treasured, memories of dreams realized, not mistakes. Even his own argument betrays him: he insists AI wouldn’t have replaced the joy of filming with his brothers, planning every shot. That’s his real fear, the one this film tries to quiet. Yet his humanity still seeps through, despite i h8 AI’s push for AI.

If he’d had this AI tool as a kid, would he have found an alien costume learned to make one? Figured out how to turn a room into a bank vault, or just press a button? Would he have learned the power of editing or simply fed scenes to AI? If his brother wasn’t around, would he have scanned him instead—filming alone in a silent room?

Chaganty dreamed of being a filmmaker; it was a truth deep in his heart… and years later, it has become a reality because he dared to dream it. Imagination becomes truth. If he had AI… I wonder if he ever would have imagined it at all - for he would never have had to do the process of making that world real. To perform it into existence. 

For all its digital splendor, the sky at the end of Chaganty’s film feels smaller and less real. The original, mundane sky holds more magic—rooted in real, imperfect memories, it’s more expansive than any algorithm could conjure.

i h8 AI only glosses over our fears of AI, unable to actually voice them—restrained as it is by Meta’s leash. It glosses over lost jobs, shoddy aesthetics, and plagiarism, serving not as critique but as commercial: art bound, gagged, soothing the very anxieties it should confront. Crafted by the powerful to lull the powerless, it cuts deep, and Chaganty should be ashamed for playing their tool. Its greatest failure is the one fear it tries to mask: AI doesn’t enhance creativity; it erases it. It strips film of humanity, targeting roles held by marginalized artists—animation, makeup, costume design. AI’s wielders, rich white heteronormative men, see art as product, not a tool for new horizons but a way to limit them. They don’t need new dreams—they have their utopia already. AI’s future isn’t one of possibility but of limitation, closing access not just to resources, but to our very ability to imagine a world beyond their control.

AI’s is no anomaly; it is just another tool for those without imagination who who won’t let us dream. A shallow echo of a world where dreams have been gutted for the sake of control. They are why Hollywood films are mostly based on IPs, endless uninspired remakes litter Hollywood and the video game industry, why generic themes of “FAMILY” replace the real, urgent cry of all art—the desperate longing scream for us to find the universal in the specific—to tell the stories of the overlooked or the marginalized or the unheard - the undying need to express the ineffable feelings in those who hurt and in doing so, discover empathy that transcends identity, time, and distance.To continually rediscover what we always forget—that we are not alone, for we exist only in connection. We are only human if we are also humanity.

Chaganty sees AI expanding his childhood dreams—I see it shrinking them.

Generative AI’s very existence is a challenge to dreams. It is designed to flatten, to mirror existing biases, to perpetuate a status quo. But I have hope. This is not the first time art has been threatened by tech-fueled greed. Hollywood itself was born out of rebellion against Thomas Edison’s monopoly on filmmaking on the east coast, pirating work and putting artists like Georges Melies out of work. So many women, queer people, and people of color helped create Hollywood before it became a system reflective of the status quo yet again, consolidating power through a system meant to only empathize with the powerful. 

And while AI, like Edison to Zazlov, can only regurgitate back what already exists, it cannot replicate dreams. The true magic of storytelling, of film, of art, is not in what we can already see but in what we dare to imagine beyond. It is our human ability to get up and make those dreams real through dreaming together, not just by sticking them into a text prompt alone in a room. We dreamed of new worlds beyond our oppression before, we can do it again. But to win - we must see the real war - the battle over our ability to dream. 

When I look at the night sky, I revel in its darkness. I see not the emptiness, the limits of what I can see but the infinite possibilities of what might be. The sky remains vast, its stories unwritten, waiting for those willing to look beyond what can be generated. It waits for those of us who are still bold enough to dream bigger, who reach together to fill it with meaning. I wouldn’t replace this sky with anything else.