On the legitimacy of AI-era authorship
Martin Scorsese doesn’t operate a camera. He doesn’t act. He doesn’t light sets. And yet his name adorns the final product. His signature is the synthesis—his vision threads every shot, every note of the soundtrack, every choice of when to linger and when to cut away. A film director, in the purest sense, is not the creator of any one component. He is the orchestrator of coherence. He brings taste, judgment, rhythm, and intentionality.
This role—of guiding disparate talents into a singular vision—has always defined the director’s value. Quentin Tarantino is not a trained cinematographer, but his frames are unmistakable. Greta Gerwig doesn't build costumes or sets, but Barbie is infused with her specific voice. Ridley Scott didn’t design the Alien creature himself—but he chose H.R. Giger, recognized the nightmare, and anchored it inside a world that felt at once sterile and haunted.
In this light, we must reconsider our assumptions about creativity in the age of AI. When someone uses AI to generate art, music, or text, are they “cheating,” or are they stepping into a directorial role? After all, the models are trained, like actors. They come with styles, preferences, and limitations. You can coax a performance from them—but you must also know what you’re looking for. And what to reject.
Steven Spielberg didn’t write the music to E.T., but he knew what to ask of John Williams. He didn’t build the alien puppet, but he knew it had to glow, had to feel small and curious rather than menacing. The genius wasn’t in doing everything himself—it was in knowing how everything should feel. The same is now true for AI-native creators: the person who writes the best prompt isn’t just issuing a command—they’re sculpting possibility space. They’re directing a performance from an alien collaborator.
Of course, there’s a difference between using AI to churn out content and using it to direct a vision. There are fast-food auteurs, too. The distinction isn’t technical—it’s artistic. Wes Anderson didn’t invent symmetrical composition. He refined it into language. Christopher Nolan didn’t invent nonlinear storytelling. He turned it into weaponized structure. These directors deserve credit because they shape meaning. The same standard must apply to AI-assisted work: is it authored, or merely assembled?
To direct is to decide. To direct is to reject. Stanley Kubrick famously shot The Shining over 100 times per scene—not because he lacked footage, but because he was chasing something exact. Working with AI models can feel similar: you generate dozens of iterations, discard the lifeless, recognize the spark in one, and coax it forward. It’s not about pressing buttons—it’s about knowing when to stop. When it’s right. When it’s yours.
AI is not the end of authorship. It’s a new kind of ensemble. It brings with it strange new cast members—models trained on humanity’s archive, but alien in texture. And as with any cast, greatness depends not just on the talent, but on the director behind the camera. The one who shapes the frame. Who finds the cut. Who says: this is the story I’m telling.