The emergence of Sora, the artificial intelligence model developed by OpenAI to generate hyperrealistic videos from text, doesn't just challenge Hollywood. It challenges something deeper: the very idea of an author. In a world where stories are constructed by algorithms, who signs the script? Who assumes narrative responsibility? Who decides what gets told and what gets left out?
For centuries, art was about conflict. A director arguing with his editor. A screenwriter defending a line. An actor improvising off-script. Sora eliminates that noise. He replaces it with efficiency. With prompts. With immediate results. But in that silence, something is lost: the tension that gives meaning to the work.
This isn't about nostalgia. It's about editorial ethics. When a story is generated by AI, who is responsible for its bias? For its aesthetics? For its emotional impact? Who decides whether a body appears or not, whether a voice has an accent, whether a scene suggests violence or redemption?
Sora has no ideology. But he was trained by humans. And those humans have biases, interests, agendas. The model isn't neutral. It's a synthesis of millions of invisible decisions. And each video generated is an editorial piece without a signature, without context, without conflict.
Authorship becomes dispensable. Viewers no longer look for names. They look for stimulation. They look for speed. They look for impact. And Hollywood, with its unions, its timescales, and its egos, can't compete. But the problem isn't Hollywood. The problem is that the narrative has become disposable.
In this new logic, the screenwriter isn't a creator. He's a prompt operator. A technician who calibrates emotions, styles, and duration. The story is no longer constructed: it's synthesized. And that synthesis, however brilliant, has no memory. It has no context. It has no voice.
Who writes the stories when no one signs them? Who is responsible for what we see, feel, and share? That's the question Sora leaves hanging. And one that no one, for now, dares to answer.
Because the real conflict isn't between Hollywood and OpenAI. It's between two models of the world. One based on experience, error, and intuition. Another based on efficiency, prediction, and optimization. One that accepts imperfection as part of art. Another that corrects it before it even appears.
Sora isn't the enemy. He's the mirror. He reflects what we as an audience demand: speed, impact, a frictionless aesthetic. And he delivers. But in the process, he erases the signature. He erases the conflict. He erases the story behind the story.
Maybe the future won't have screenwriters. Maybe it will have narrative operators. Prompt curators. Emotion technicians. But in that future, who is in charge of the narrative? Who is responsible when a story generates hatred, manipulation, or violence?
Authorship isn't a luxury. It's a responsibility. And without it, the story becomes anonymous. And anonymity, in times of polarization, is dangerous.
Sora writes without a signature. And that, beyond his technical prowess, should worry us.
Because if no one signs, no one responds. And if no one responds, the story ceases to have any consequences. It becomes noise. Incentive. Consumption. But not culture.
