Wencai Yao and the Art of Filmmaking in Transition: AI, Language, and the Search for Human Experience
In a film industry increasingly shaped by rapid technological change, few filmmakers are navigating as many intersecting worlds as Wencai. Working across commercial production, documentary filmmaking, and AI-driven visual storytelling, her practice reflects a broader shift in how cinema is being redefined today.
Her work moves fluidly between industry and research, image-making and language, technology and human experience. Rather than separating these domains, she approaches them as part of a single evolving practice.
At a time when filmmaking is becoming more accessible through digital tools and AI systems, her work raises a fundamental question: if anyone can generate images, what still defines the role of a filmmaker?
Q：What have you been working on recently, and are there any projects that feel particularly exciting or representative of your current direction?
A：Recently, I’ve been leading the development and narrative direction of a new AI-driven live-action film project in collaboration with Wanda Pictures. The project explores how AI can be integrated into the filmmaking pipeline—from story development to visual production—and reflects the direction my work is moving toward. It is part of a broader industry shift, as major studios increasingly experiment with AI to reshape traditional production processes.
Q：Could you elaborate on what feels different about this process compared to traditional filmmaking?
A：On one hand, it significantly reduces certain production costs. But more importantly, it’s expanding what filmmaking can actually be—how stories are created, visualized, and even performed. For me, it’s been a very hands-on process. A typical day might involve working with a film production team in the morning, and then sitting down with AI engineers in the afternoon, trying to figure out how to better integrate artistic decisions with technological systems. It’s still a very new space, but that’s exactly what makes it interesting. When the technical barriers to filmmaking are gradually disappearing, it really forces you to rethink what the role of a filmmaker—or a director—even means today.
Q：So what do you think—do you feel the role of a director still holds the same meaning today?
A：I think it still holds meaning—but in a very different way. When image production is no longer limited by budget, time, or physical constraints, for example, every prompt can generate multiple visually impressive images, the question is no longer how to produce an image, but how to choose between them—why this one, and not the other. And that’s where the role of a director becomes even more important.
Because that decision doesn’t come from the tool. It comes from the person—from what you’ve read, what you’ve watched, how you understand the world, and ultimately, your taste. So while the threshold for making images might be getting lower, the expectations for directing are actually getting higher. I think that’s really where the meaning of directing lies now—not in controlling production, but in making choices with intention, perspective, and judgment, and caring more about human experience.
Q: Could you give an example of how you understand and express human experience in your work?
A：One example that stayed with me was during Off Stage, where I worked as a script supervisor and editing assistant. There’s a scene where a mother comes back after being away, worried her children can’t take care of themselves. But when she arrives, everything is in order—and instead of relief, she feels a subtle disappointment. So the children pretend. They mess up the kitchen, ruin clothes, acting as if they still need her. She complains, but takes care of them, even instinctively humming. To me, that feels very true—especially for a middle-aged East Asian mother. It’s quiet, but emotionally complex.
I think that kind of observation is what makes a film resonate. It’s not something you construct, but something you recognize. It’s also what led the film to receive recognition at major national awards, including nominations at both the Beijing International Film Festival’s Tiantan Award and the Golden Rooster Awards, and the lead actress He Saifei won Best Actress for this role. But for me, what stays are these small, almost invisible moments. Those are the moments I keep trying to find in my own work.
Q: Following up on that, your film So Long, Mom has received international recognition, and many viewers describe it as delicate and deeply moving. Do you think that connects to what you mentioned about human experience? And is there anything from that project you’d like to share?
A：Yes, I think it’s closely related.
In that film, I was really focused on capturing subtle emotional details between women. During the process, I wasn’t sure if those moments would be noticed—but from the audience feedback, they were very clearly felt. Across different cultures and languages, that kind of emotion is actually quite universal.
The film brought me a lot of recognition, but what stayed with me more was the process itself. We were shooting in a very small, old dry-cleaning shop, with limited electricity, minimal equipment, and strict constraints during the pandemic. So we had to reduce everything—crew, lighting, space—and really rethink how to use what we had. That pushed me to explore space differently. I think a director’s ability to make the most of what they have is incredibly important. For example, using mirrors, reflections, and off-screen space—not just as physical elements, but as part of the visual language.
At one point, I even felt this should be taught in film school—how to work with limited resources. Because for most young filmmakers, constraints—whether budget or time—are inevitable. So in a way, learning how to “dance within those constraints” becomes a fundamental part of directing.
Q:I know you spent about six years working as a commercial director in Beijing, collaborating with a number of global brands—do those kinds of constraints feel different or easier to work with in that context?
A：I wouldn’t say it’s easier—just different. Commercial projects may seem to have larger budgets, but they also come with more layers—more things that require resources, and more complex dynamics to navigate. So constraints never really disappear; they just take different forms. That’s why I feel this is something directors should actively learn—how to work within constraints, because they are always there.
I remember shooting a car commercial where we had access to some of the best cameras and lighting setups at the time. But in the end, the most powerful shot came from a moment we captured almost casually—right before leaving the Gobi Desert at sunset. That experience stayed with me. It made me realize that I don’t really believe in relying on budget or technology alone. Sometimes having more people or more resources doesn’t necessarily lead to better results. In the end, it always comes down to how you choose to see and use what you have.
Q: Where does that sense of judgment come from?
A：It comes from a combination of different things. I was trained at the Beijing Film Academy, which gave me a solid foundation in cinematic language. At the same time, I grew up around traditional Chinese painting and calligraphy, which shaped how I think about composition and visual rhythm. Then there’s everything you absorb over time—films you’ve watched, books you’ve read, and the way you observe people and the world. All of that gradually forms your taste.
Q: Could you tell us about your workshop at Cornell in April? I understand it focused on AI filmmaking, but it also touched on Tibetan language—how did your work as a director become connected to Tibetan teaching?
A：It actually started from a personal interest in the philosophical and intellectual traditions within Tibetan Buddhism. I began learning Tibetan as a way to engage more directly with those texts. More recently, while working on AI-driven film projects, I realized that Tibetan is still very underrepresented in current media and AI systems. There’s simply not enough data or content for these tools to properly support the language. So I try to bring together my background in Tibetan language and visual production to, in some small way, help reduce that structural inequality.
Q: What do you mean by “inequality”?
A：In a broad sense, AI is often seen as something that can reduce inequality in access to information. No matter where you are, you can potentially access more content and knowledge. But that mainly applies to speakers of high-resource languages—languages that are already widely used, continuously produced, and constantly fed into these systems. The more data they generate, the better the systems become. It creates a kind of positive feedback loop.
For less common languages, it’s the opposite. There simply isn’t enough data—whether linguistic or visual—for these systems to learn from. As a result, the tools remain limited, which in turn discourages further use and production. Over time, this can reinforce and even widen the gap. That’s where I see my work fitting in.
I’ve been working with institutions like the University of Michigan and Columbia University on video production for advanced Tibetan language programs. These are long-term projects focused on building structured learning materials. On one hand, I use AI tools to create more effective visual content for learners. On the other, that process also contributes additional data that can help these systems improve over time.
At the workshop at Cornell University in April, I shared some of these approaches—how filmmaking methods, like directing and editing, can be adapted to support language learning and make this kind of content more accessible to others.
Q: Looking across your work—from fiction filmmaking to AI-driven filmmaking—what are you planning to explore next?
A：In one direction, I’ll continue working in commercial filmmaking. I know some younger directors tend to resist commercial work, but in reality, it demands a very complete skill set. It’s not just about artistic vision, but also about leading large teams, managing complex production systems, and delivering clear results. It’s something I’m comfortable with, and also a practical way I support my work. At the same time, I’m developing a documentary project focused on Chinese immigrant workers in the post-pandemic United States.
Q: Could you tell us more about that project?
A：You may have noticed that, especially these years, there are nail salons everywhere—and more than 70% of them are owned, funded, or operated by Chinese immigrants. For some, these businesses have created real upward mobility—they’ve built stable lives, even significant wealth, and created jobs for others. For others, especially those who arrived under more difficult circumstances, it’s still a process of learning, adapting, and finding a place to stand.
For a long time, Chinese immigrant narratives were often associated with restaurants or laundromats. But nail salons have, in many ways, become a new entry point for a different generation. What interests me is not just the industry itself, but the range of lives behind it—how these individual stories reflect broader questions of migration, labor, identity, and survival in the current social landscape. Right now, I’m following several individuals over time, trying to capture those stories from within.
Q: You’ve clearly developed a strong command of AI-driven filmmaking, and your work in that space is very compelling. Why continue making documentaries?
A：For me, it comes down to respecting the world. AI extends what we can do—it expands our technical reach. In a way, it’s like having a longer arm, allowing you to reach things that were once out of grasp. But for cinema, that’s not enough. Film, to me, is always a reflection of life. What we see on screen is a distilled version of real human experience.
The more advanced the technology becomes, the easier it is to create everything in isolation. And because of that, I feel it’s even more important for a director to move in the opposite direction—to go out, to observe, to stay close to real people and real situations. You have to remain a kind of wanderer—constantly looking, listening, and learning from the world. Because in the end, what we bring back into film is not just images, but human experience.
Across her work—from AI-driven filmmaking to documentary practice and language-based media—a consistent thread emerges: a commitment to grounding images in lived experience. As new technologies reshape how films are made, her approach suggests that the future of cinema lies not in tools alone, but in the perspectives that guide them.
In an age of visual abundance, this points toward a different kind of authorship—one rooted in attention, selection, and meaning. Whether in commercial production, documentary work, or language-focused projects, her practice reflects a broader aim: to expand not only how stories are made, but how they are understood across cultures.
Her work has received recognition through major awards, international screenings, and cross-sector collaborations. But beyond that recognition, what defines her practice is a consistent focus on human experience—and a belief that storytelling, at its best, can still bridge distances between people, cultures, and ways of seeing the world.
