The recent controversy surrounding an AI actor database has propelled the phrase "iQiyi is crazy" to the top of trending searches online. iQiyi Inc. CEO Gong Yu responded by publishing three consecutive social media posts. He argued that after actors authorize AI for creative purposes, the guaranteed base payment for a single project might be lower, but they could take on more roles. He stated, "Technology is people-oriented; technology is never meant to replace humans." His logic was tight and his tone mild. Yet, reading his explanation left the audience even more frustrated.
The core of the heated online debate is clear: audiences do not want to watch AI replace real actors in performances. However, Gong Yu addressed a different issue—*how* to smoothly implement the replacement of real actors with AI. The audience is asking "Why must there be a replacement at all?", while he is explaining "How to make the replacement smoother." The audience fears the "erasure of human performers," but his assurance is that "profit-sharing can be negotiated." This isn't a dialogue; it's two parties speaking past each other through different doors, politely failing to hear one another.
Previously, the accounts presented by Gong Yu at the iQiyi World Conference resembled the fable of "Three at Dawn and Four at Dusk." A monkey keeper tells the monkeys: three acorns in the morning, four in the evening. The monkeys are furious. He changes it to four in the morning, three in the evening, and the monkeys become pleased. Gong Yu's narrative follows the same pattern—AI allows actors more rest, which is the "four at dawn"; but their digital replicas being used indefinitely, with their bargaining power for pay reduced to zero, is the unspoken "three at dusk."
Actors including Zhang Ruoyun, Yu Hewei, Wang Churan, and Li Yitong urgently refuted rumors that they had signed any agreement, while Zhou Yiwei joked self-deprecatingly that "actors are about to become intangible cultural heritage inheritors." When an actor's likeness becomes a digital asset that platforms can utilize at will, what position does the actor hold in this new "decentralized" ecosystem? The answer is obvious—a position that is being "de-centered."
The audience's resistance is not against the technology itself. Criticizing iQiyi's aggressive AI push does not equate to denying the value of technological progress. On the contrary, AI applications in the film and television industry have vast and legitimate potential. Using AI for high-risk stunt doubles, reducing special effects costs, or helping young creators lower entry barriers—no one opposes these uses. But when AI-generated performances become sufficiently cheap, what incentive does capital have to use real humans, who get tired, cost more, and often don't comply? Algorithms don't need sleep, won't have personal scandals, and command zero salary. On capital's balance sheet, this represents the perfect production factor.
Gong Yu recently wrote in a publication: "Creativity and artistry are the soul of creation, which AI cannot replace." However, last year's controversy over the ending of iQiyi's drama "无忧渡" (Worry-Free Crossing) served as a clear rebuttal. An AI script analysis model calculated the emotional arcs of 160 plot patterns and recommended a tragic ending, as the algorithm deemed it would create stronger realistic tension. The result? 300,000 critical comments flooded social media platforms within six hours.
In the final analysis, the future of the film and television industry undoubtedly includes a space for humans and AI to coexist. But who should lead this dance, and where the boundaries of the steps lie, should not be unilaterally decided by any single party. Ultimately, what audiences fear is not that AI performances become too human-like, but that capital will force real humans to become like AI—requiring no life experiences, no salaries, no rest, needing only a face that can be replicated permanently.
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