We’re on the movie set for an ultrashort drama in Beijing. Tensions are high, and tears are flowing — they’re just not the right kind of tears.

“One more take,” shouts the director, before turning to his male actor, Lu. “You need to stick with the rhythm given to you by artificial intelligence … your crying isn’t up to standard. The tears came out too slow.”

For Lu, who asked to be identified only by his surname, crying on demand is already a challenge — but doing it in front of a camera while trying to match an “optimal emotional curve” set by AI? That feels almost impossible.

For a start, the data makes no sense to him. After analyzing hundreds of clips of dramatic scenes, the AI system has plotted a curve along an XY axis, with time on the horizontal and expressions on the vertical. At peaks and troughs are instructions such as “show restraint,” “erupt,” and “furrow your brows.”

The actor rechecks the AI-generated script he was sent: “Minute 3 to 4: emotional breakdown.” His knuckles whiten as he grips his phone, forcing down whatever is rising in his throat. Now, even his expressions of pain are expected to conform to machine-calibrated measurements.

Life imitating art

Lu, a vocational school graduate in his late 20s, got his start in the movie industry working as a background artist, often known as “extras,” at Zhuozhou World Studios, one of China’s biggest film bases, in the northern Hebei province. Getting work had been easy as a rookie, but over time his face appeared in crowds on various shows, making him more recognizable and, in turn, less attractive to directors.

He had hoped to earn at least 5,000 yuan ($695) a month as an actor, but by January 2023 he was barely scraping a living. So, he decided to join several others in swapping Zhuozhou for Yangsong Town in Beijing’s Huairou District, a bustling hub for China’s film and TV industry.

The shift into ultrashort movies was partially inspired by a rude assistant to a film director who once told him on set: “You don’t think acting takes brains? You might as well go shoot ultrashort dramas — anyone with a mouth can do it.”

Yet, upon arriving in the capital, Lu was instantly unsettled by the dominance of AI. For his very first audition, he’d spent half a day rehearsing a single line, but before he could even deliver it, the assistant director raised his phone camera and said, “Stand still — AI gets the first look.”

Lu quickly discovered AI being used in almost every aspect of the creative process, from writing scripts and characterization to devising action sequences and even casting. During auditions, an assistant director will now often take full-body photos of each actor and upload them to an AI program, which ultimately will determine whether they are right for the role.

For a scene at a screen test, Lu was instructed to slap the face of another male actor, who was suspended on wires at a height specified in an AI-generated visual design. Even on tiptoe, Lu couldn’t reach him — he had to jump just to brush the man’s face with his fingertips. After several attempts, the other actor began to giggle, causing the director to angrily shout: “Laugh one more time and it’s a 100-yuan fine.”

For the next scene, they moved to an outdoor location for an AI-devised stunt in which Lu had to look like he was leaping onto the back of a horse. The storyboard, which also had been drawn using AI, showed that the actor had to lift his left leg, with the director adding that it should be “at a 45-degree angle,” as this would look better on camera.

Lu hit his knee hard on the ground during the practice jump, and it started bleeding. The director, eyes fixed on his PC tablet, looked dissatisfied. Lu leaned in and caught a glimpse of the screen, capturing only the phrase “facial compatibility score.”

The director took him to one side and said, “The AI has calculated that you’re better suited to play the valet.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Go take care of that injury.” Lu asked only whether the valet role paid the same, but the director impatiently waved him away.

As an actor, Lu has never minded having to do multiple takes to get a single shot, that endless sense of repetition. What he fears is AI rewriting the script mid-production — despite the lines usually making little to no sense, actors are often instructed to perform them exactly as dictated.

The AI system bases its output on one guiding principle: web traffic. Whatever is attracting eyeballs online, that’s what goes into the script.

In one show, the AI system assigned Lu the role of a man who gets run down and killed by a car while trying to retrieve his dropped phone. His first reaction upon reading the script was to protest to the director, “A real person would check for cars first.” The response was, “Data shows that ‘suddenly running into the street’ has more impact. … It aligns with the high-engagement ‘phone zombie’ tag.”

In another script, Lu was cast as a takeout delivery driver. The AI had written in two key actions: “throw helmet” and “curse loudly.” Before the first take, Lu was nervous. He had secretly asked AI about the role himself and was told that an “80% anger level” was required and that “object-throwing scenes go viral.”

However, he hadn’t considered how bouncy the plastic helmet might be. When he threw it, it ricocheted like a rubber ball, and Lu couldn’t suppress his amusement. The AI system gave him an “emotional alignment” score of 45%, and the director accused him of deliberately goofing around. “Maybe we shouldn’t rely exclusively on AI feedback. Shouldn’t we consider your instincts, too?” Lu had said, attempting to smooth things over. The director just smirked and replied, “My instincts are about the same as the AI’s.”

On the second take, Lu tried to tap into hardships and injustices he’d experienced in his life, hoping to bring his emotions to the surface. He thought back to 2022, when his mother suffered a fall while in lockdown on a construction site. Her wrist swelled up like a ball, but she endured for four days before eventually going to the hospital. With this thought, Lu crouched on the ground and cried hard, his face soaked with tears. Unexpectedly, the director shouted with satisfaction, “Now that’s acting!” Lu didn’t dare mention that he’d forgotten to throw the helmet.

It was only after a few more takes that the director suddenly remembered. “Why didn’t you throw the helmet like in the AI storyboard?” he said. “I gave you the freedom to improvise, not to ignore the AI’s instructions. Stick to the template.”

Unwilling to compromise his art just yet, Lu tried to explain: “My dad’s a delivery driver. When he gets a bad review, he just squats in a corner and smokes in silence. He’d never throw his helmet — if it broke, how would he keep working?” The director was unswayed. “Who would want to watch your dad’s version?” He instructed him to quickly throw the helmet so they could get on with shooting the next scene. Over the next two takes, Lu attempted to tap into that same emotion, but his performances were flat.

As the director became more impatient, he threatened to dock the actor an hour’s pay. “You were crying just fine earlier,” he shouted, adding, “AI understands traffic better than people do.” At this point, Lu realized resistance was futile. “AI can calculate the optimal time for tears,” he says, “but it can’t calculate how much a person hurts inside.”

Some actors have told Lu that if he stops being so stubborn and simply follows the AI instructions, exaggerating his expressions and movements, he could shoot six or seven episodes for an ultrashort drama in one day.

“Be human, will you?”

After about five months hustling in the industry, Lu was invited to a casting call that promised to pay 50 yuan to anyone who auditioned, regardless of whether they got the role. It felt like easy money.

When Lu arrived, he saw at least 30 people already in line. When it was his turn, he was told to stand in front of a green screen. They wanted photos of him from the front, in profile, and at a 45-degree angle; with mouth open, eyes closed, and laughing; and expressing sadness, surprise, and fear. They’d also shoot three short videos of him speaking, running, and squatting.

It took a while, but Lu eventually realized that they were using his images to build an AI-generated digital avatar. Furious, he turned and walked out, refusing the 50 yuan audition fee.

He’d barely made it a few steps when he heard someone behind him scoff, “Another idiot walking away from 50 yuan.” Outside, Lu’s heart was pounding — not so much from anger, but from a combination of humiliation and bitter resentment.

However, he noticed that most other people stayed. Lu had heard through word of mouth that the more digital avatars AI collected, the fewer roles there would be for real actors.

“Be human, will you?” has become something of a catchphrase for Lu. One day, the woman who runs the pancake stall he frequents overheard his complaints and looked at him in disbelief. “What are you talking about, kid?” she asked. “AI is just a computer. How can a computer bully a person?”

Lu didn’t know how to explain, so he didn’t bother trying. Instead, he opened his phone and checked the latest script. His lines had changed again, likely because online traffic trends had shifted. This irritated him, but he kept reading and realized that the revision had added lines for his character. This meant he might be able to ask the director for more money.

As Lu mulled things over, he input the lines, plot, and stage directions into an AI platform, asking it to “analyze in depth” and offer suggestions. Though he often says he hates AI, Lu regularly uses it to study for his roles.

The film studio’s AI system had also sent two more “high-traffic clips of angry acting,” suggesting that he “amplify facial expressions by 30%.” Lu still had no idea what that was supposed to look like. “What the hell does a machine know?” he curses, but still he practiced that day in the mirror until his face cramped.

Looking at himself, he captured a glimpse of his stiff gaze and suddenly remembered something his mother once told him — that because his eyes are small, the way the left corner of his mouth curls up when he smiles makes him look especially handsome. That little detail isn’t part of the AI parameters.

The next day, when the director criticized Lu’s “robotic” acting during filming, Lu showed him the AI suggestions. The director snapped back, “Can’t you just act like a human being?” Lu grinned and retorted, “Can’t you act like a human being?”

The ultrashort drama industry is a relatively small, tight-knit circle, so most people know each other and can speak bluntly without ruffling any feathers. Lu often slips his frustrations into these exchanges, annoyed that a director would rely solely on AI-generated metrics to judge whether an actor’s performance was “angry enough.” But that day, even though he followed the AI’s instructions, the take still didn’t pass muster. The director even blamed him for holding up the schedule.

Later, Lu received a call from a casting director about another role that might suit him. Every audition brings fresh hope, and this time it was for something entirely new — a project with a 1980s Hong Kong vibe. Lu pondered what to wear to the meeting for a long time before finally handing the problem over to AI, which suggested a “dark brown pinstripe” look.

Yet, when he arrived on set, the director looked baffled. “Where’d you even get that outfit?” he asked, unimpressed. Before Lu could respond, the director added, “Just look at that waistband — no retro vibe whatsoever.”

End scene

Lu can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to dream about being a “real actor.” Back in Zhuozhou, he’d blindly followed other extras from set to set, earning just over 2,000 yuan a month, all the while believing he might one day become a movie star like Wang Baoqiang, who started his career as an extra.

He now goes to about eight auditions a month, waiting in line with other extras to be matched and screened by AI. Sometimes, he’ll land a part with a few lines of dialogue. In a good month, he might shoot three episodes of a drama.

Lu knows that AI can’t possibly dictate every human detail with perfect precision. When AI prompts him to act like a surprised passerby, mouth wide open in shock, Lu adds a flicker of fear to his eyes — the kind that comes from being too surprised. Whenever he does that, the AI always approves.

When an audition doesn’t work out, Lu can end up with nothing to show for a day’s hustle. Returning home, he will ask an AI platform to generate a 30-minute workout, something low intensity. His knee injury hasn’t healed yet, and as soon as he starts the AI-recommended workout, the pain flares up again.

“This AI is so dumb,” he mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t stop. He needs to keep his weight under control for his next audition.

Reported by Oscar Wu.

A version of this article originally appeared in Youthology. It has been translated and edited for brevity and clarity, and is republished here with permission.

Translator: Carrie Davies; editors: Wang Juyi and Hao Qibao.

(Header image: Visuals from VCG, reedited by Sixth Tone)