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Who Spins the Cocoon?

Altın Koza's Artificial-Intelligence Short-Film Competition and the Class of the Image

Author: Oğuz Demirkapı
Who Spins the Cocoon?

Who Spins the Cocoon?

Altın Koza's artificial-intelligence short-film competition and the class of the image

Dear Young Comrades,

The 33rd International Adana Altın Koza Film Festival, now under way in Adana, is holding an artificial-intelligence short-film competition for the first time this year. This piece takes that competition as an occasion to ask again an older and deeper question: who makes an image, and to whom does the image that is made belong? First we give a short summary; then we open each heading in detail.

Summary: what does this piece say?

The event. The 33rd Altın Koza (26 September – 4 October 2026, Adana Metropolitan Municipality) opened a National Artificial-Intelligence Short-Film Competition for the first time. Ten films from 105 applications reached the final; the jury is Alkan Avcıoğlu, Ezgi Çelik and Umut Subaşı; the awards will be announced on the evening of 3 October. On opening night the same festival gave the Orhan Kemal Labour Awards.

The theses of the piece:

  • The question is not aesthetic; it is ontological and a class question. "Is an artificial-intelligence film art?" is a question that stalls us. The real question is this: whose labour was objectified in this image, and to whom does this objectified labour belong?
  • The model is the frozen form of the "general intellect". The machine that Marx, in the Grundrisse, called "organs of the human brain, created by the human hand; objectified knowledge-power" is today a model that has swallowed the accumulation of millions of image workers. This accumulation was produced socially and appropriated privately.
  • Benjamin's aura is dying a second time, but this time the heir is not the mass, it is the monopoly. In 1936 technical reproduction opened art to the mass; in 2026 generative image-art is closing it into a subscription model.
  • The model's aesthetic is the aesthetic of the average. The model produces the most probable; art begins where the most probable is broken. Adorno and Horkheimer's finding that "the culture industry stamps everything with likeness" has turned into a statistical machine.
  • Alienation is no longer fourfold; it is fivefold. The worker is torn not only from their product, their process, their species-being and the other, but from their own face and voice as well: the digital twin, the voice clone.
  • The camera is rented, it has a memory, and it is censored. The money barrier is not lifted; it changes form. Cinema is not being democratised; it is being turned into tenancy.
  • Benjamin's warning still holds. Fascism aestheticises politics; our answer is to politicise art. Taking machine-art out of being the monopoly's shop window is done by changing its place in the relation of production.
  • Our stance: we are not against the category; our objection is to the category's rules. A public festival can set public rules: a declaration of tools and data, a principle of consent, an incentive for open tools, rights remaining with the creator, a common table with cinema workers.

In a single sentence: what separates the image made with artificial intelligence from the one not so made is not code, it is property; and the cocoon, today as always, is spun by hands.

Now let us go into the detail.

The facts: a festival, a category, ten films

HeadingInformation
Festival33rd International Adana Altın Koza Film Festival, 26 September – 4 October 2026
Organised byAdana Metropolitan Municipality
Scale210 films from 23 countries; screenings free
Total prize moneyAbout 8.4 million lira (best film 4 million lira, Yılmaz Güney Award 750,000 lira)
Short-film applications983 applications in four categories, 63 finalists
Artificial-intelligence categoryOpened for the first time; 105 applications, 10 finalists
Artificial-intelligence juryAlkan Avcıoğlu, Ezgi Çelik, Umut Subaşı
Awards ceremony3 October 2026

The festival's general coordinator, İsmail Timuçin, announced the category as follows: "This year we have also opened a heading in the field of artificial intelligence, which is now a fact of the world." He added that the young were showing a serious interest in this field.

The films that reached the final, and their directors, according to Beyazperde:

  • 7 Kemerli Bir Zaman Geçidi: Taşköprü — Zeynep Kahreman
  • Başka Türlü — Çağatay Dörtyıldız
  • Bir Dilek Tut — Hakan Kemiksiz
  • Gece Yarısı, Benimle — Barış Fert
  • İnsan Çiftliği — Melik Külekci
  • İzler — Hazar Vurgun Çağıldıyan
  • Lekesiz — Mustafa Savaş
  • Sanatorium Poetica — Ulaş Baltacı
  • Son Dodo — Kaan Atilla Taşkın
  • Yüce Sezar! — Bora Yavuz Subaşı

We will not pass judgement on the contents without seeing the films. We will only draw attention to one sign: Son Dodo calls up the last individual of a vanished species, İnsan Çiftliği the turning of the human into something that is harvested. That young people making films with the machine ask of themselves where the machine is taking the human is this piece's question as well. The tool is making us think about itself.

The cocoon: the philosophy of a name

A festival's name is not an accident. "Altın Koza" is the cotton boll. Çukurova's wealth comes from that boll; the boll's wealth comes from the hands that pick it, hoe it, carry it. That is why the festival's labour awards bear Orhan Kemal's name, and why one of its great prizes bears Yılmaz Güney's: the farmhands of On Fertile Lands and Cabbar the cart-driver of Hope are children of this soil.

There is a fine sentence in Engels's unfinished text The Part Played by Labour in the Transition from Ape to Man: the hand is not only the organ of labour, it is at the same time the product of labour. The human made the hand by working; the hand also made the human. The human is the being that transforms itself while transforming the world.

The young Marx, in the 1844 Manuscripts, carries this further: the human shapes nature through labour and sees themselves in the object they have created. In a table the carpenter, in a song the bard, in a film the crew, objectify themselves. Labour is the human writing themselves onto the world.

Our philosophical question is born here: in an artificial-intelligence image, who wrote themselves onto the world? The director who gave the prompt? The engineer who trained the model? The nameless creators of the millions of images the model "saw"? Or no one at all?

Our answer: all of them, but under unequal conditions. And the name of this inequality is property.

From cotton to the model: in whose hands is the machine?

The history of cotton is at the same time the history of the machine. When the cotton gin was invented in 1793, many people thought cotton labour would be lightened. The opposite happened: once the machine sped up the separating of fibre from seed, the fields grew, demand for slave labour rose, and slavery's life was prolonged. Çukurova lived this in its own body two centuries later: when harvest machines entered the field, the farmhands were not freed; they were scattered to other provinces as seasonal agricultural workers.

Marx, in Capital, sets this contradiction out plainly: the machine in itself shortens labour-time, but in capitalist use it lengthens the working day; it eases labour, but in capitalist use it intensifies it; it is the human's victory over nature, but in capitalist use it subjects the human to the yoke of natural forces. The problem is not in the machine; it is in its "capitalist use".

This is a principle of the philosophy of technology, young comrades: technique is not an object outside social relations; it is the materialised form of a social relation. Today a new machine is coming onto Altın Koza's stage. The question is the same as it was two hundred years ago: whose is this machine?

The frozen form of the general intellect

In Marx's 1858 Grundrisse notebooks there are pages later called the "Fragment on Machines". There he writes: nature does not build machines, locomotives, railways, the electric telegraph. These are organs of the human brain, created by the human hand; they are objectified knowledge-power. Marx calls this social accumulation, with an English term, the general intellect.

Let us come forward a hundred and fifty years. For an image model to be able to draw "an Adana street in morning light", it must previously have "seen" the images produced by millions of photographers, cinematographers, lighting technicians, actors, painters. The model gathered these images for the most part without permission, extracted statistical patterns from them, then sold these patterns back for a subscription fee.

This is the almost literal realisation of Marx's fragment; but in the reverse direction. Marx thought that the objectification of the general intellect in the machine would render the law of value meaningless and would make possible a future in which free time would be the measure of social wealth. Today the general intellect is not being freed; it is being enclosed. Knowledge produced socially is turning into a private property.

We told this earlier in The Revolt of Crystallized Labor: A Call to the 20th Karaburun Science Congress. In Learning from Everyone Is Permitted, Learning from the Monopoly Is a Crime we also saw the naked form of the contradiction: learning from everyone's labour is counted as "fair use"; learning from the monopoly's output is "theft". Property is the power that decides whose learning is legitimate.

Think of the credits of an artificial-intelligence film. A director, a screenwriter, perhaps a sound designer. But none of the tens of thousands of image workers who made those frames possible is in the credits. The film with the shortest credits is the film with the most crowded labour.

Benjamin's aura: the second death

In the essay The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technical Reproducibility, written in 1935–36, Walter Benjamin speaks of the "aura" of the work of art: the work's being here and now, its uniqueness in space and time, the feeling of reverence and distance that accompanies it. Photography and cinema were destroying this aura. A painting had a single copy; a film's copies were unlimited.

Benjamin did not lament this destruction; on the contrary, he saw a possibility in it. Aura was the shadow that came to art from ritual, from the sacred, from the ruling class's museum. Technical reproduction was opening art to the mass, carrying it from cult value to exhibition value, that is, making it able to be political. The worker in the cinema hall was the new relation with the image of someone who could not enter the palace gallery.

Today the aura is dying a second time. Now it is not only the copy that is unlimited, but the original as well. There is not even an original being reproduced; every image is the first and last copy of an original that never existed. But here a condition of Benjamin's optimism is broken. In 1936 there was a technical possibility of the means of reproduction — the camera, the projector, the film strip — passing to the mass; Dziga Vertov's "kino-eye" imagined a future in which workers would film themselves. In 2026 the means of production sits on a handful of companies' servers, in a form that will never be handed over to the user.

So the aura is dying, but the heir is not the mass, it is the monopoly. The painting's sacredness is leaving the museum not for the people but for the platform. The new "cult value" is the model itself: everyone kneels before it, talks of its talents, waits for each new version as if for a revelation. This is a form of enchantment; and enchantment is the opposite of criticism.

One step beyond Barthes: when the author dies, to whom does the inheritance pass?

Alkan Avcıoğlu, who sits on the jury, is one of the known artists who work with artificial intelligence. In the exhibition "The Death of the Camera", open in Istanbul, he carries Roland Barthes's idea of "the death of the author" into the image and asks whether the camera's singular authority over the image can come to an end. For the long documentary Beyond Reality, which he produced with artificial intelligence, it is reported that he produced more than fifty-five hours of footage in fifteen months, but did the edit by hand. This question and this labour are worth thinking about.

When Barthes announced the death of the author in 1967, he was freeing the meaning of the text from the author's intention and leaving it to the reader: "the birth of the reader must be ransomed by the death of the Author." This was a democratic gesture against authority.

But let us take it one step further. When the "death" of the author, the photographer, the camera is announced today, does meaning really pass to the reader? While the owner of the model that determines the possible forms of the image, that decides what may be shown and what is forbidden, that takes a fee from every production, is standing there? Barthes's reader was free; today's "user" is bound to a terms-of-use contract.

If the author is dying, the heir should be the reader, not the monopoly. The camera's authority can come to an end; but the authority of the model that replaces it is far more invisible, and far more central, than the camera's.

The aesthetic of the average

How does an image model work? To put it simply: from the millions of images it has seen, it learns to produce the image that most resembles a given description, the most probable image. The model, by definition, is the machine of probability.

There is a deep philosophical tension here, young comrades. The history of art is the history of the moments when probability is broken. Eisenstein's Odessa steps in Potemkin, Kuleshov's experiment of placing the same face beside different images and giving birth to different feelings, the sheep dying inside the train in Yılmaz Güney's The Herd. These were the unexpected; not the average of what had been seen until that day, but the refusal of it.

Adorno and Horkheimer, in the 1940s, begin the "Culture Industry" chapter of Dialectic of Enlightenment with this finding: today culture stamps everything with a likeness. Film, radio, magazines form a system; everything resembles everything else, because everything is produced according to the market's expectation. In those days this was a tendency. Today this tendency has turned into an algorithm: likeness is no longer a side-effect; it is the machine's working principle.

This does not mean that creative work cannot be done with artificial intelligence. On the contrary: the real labour of the artist who works with the machine is in resisting the machine's average, forcing it outside probability, selecting, cutting, placing side by side. Kuleshov's lesson still holds: meaning is born not in the frames one by one, but in the edit, that is, in the place where human consciousness brings the images together. But the condition of this is that the artist be aware of the machine's average. Whoever is not aware multiplies, without knowing it, what they take to be their own style, which is in fact the statistical average of millions of images.

The fifth alienation: the worker torn from their face and voice

In the 1844 Manuscripts Marx counts four dimensions of alienation: the worker is alienated from their product, because the product does not belong to them; from the labour process, because work is not their self-realisation but a necessity; from their species-being, that is, from the human's free and conscious capacity to create; and from other humans.

In the age of artificial intelligence a fifth dimension is appearing: the worker's alienation from the image of their own body. An actor's face is scanned once and that face goes on playing, without the actor, in scenes the actor does not know. A voice artist's voice is cloned and that voice speaks while the artist is silent. What is most personal to the human, the face and the voice, is torn from them and becomes a commodity.

When Georg Lukács, in 1923 in History and Class Consciousness, described "reification", he spoke of human relations appearing as relations among things, of the human living their own qualities as a commodity from outside. The digital twin is the most extreme form of reification: the human is forced to compete with a copy of themselves.

This is not an abstract danger. This summer in Turkey the voice-acting branch of the Actors' Union stated that producers were putting vague clauses into contracts permitting the artist's voice to be cloned without consent and without extra pay, and that the logic of "pay once, use for ever" was dominant in the sector.

What the strike proved: technology is determined at the table

What can be done against this alienation? The clearest answer came from Hollywood. In 2023 in the United States screenwriters and actors struck for months; at the centre of the strike, as much as wages, was artificial intelligence. As Mahmut Şenol wrote in Cumhuriyet that summer, 98 percent of the sector's workers had joined the strike.

The gains of that strike were carried forward in 2026:

These gains are limited; vague phrases such as "significant added value" may tomorrow be interpreted in the bosses' favour. But philosophically they prove a great deal: how technology will be used is not written inside the technology. Technological determinism, that is, the understanding that "technology arrives, society adapts", is the ideology of the ruling class. In reality technology takes shape inside the power relation between classes. What was limited by a strike in Hollywood is being taken quietly, in Turkey, by a contract clause; the difference between them is not technology, it is organised strength.

The rented camera, the camera with a memory

There is a point here on which we must be honest. Artificial-intelligence tools are genuinely wearing down cinema's oldest class barrier, the barrier of capital. Making films was always expensive; the history of cinema is largely the history of those who had money, or of those who could persuade those who had money. Let us not forget that Yılmaz Güney had to found his own company in order to shoot Hope. Today a student, with a laptop and a monthly subscription, can produce images they could not have imagined a few years ago. This is a possibility; to refuse it would be to shut labouring people's children out of this field of expression once again.

But look at the form of the possibility. The tool in the young director's hand is not theirs; it is rented. And this camera:

  • Has a memory. Every prompt given, every trial produced, is data with which the company can train its next model. While you make a film, the machine learns from you; that is, you are both its customer and its unpaid worker.
  • Is censored. What may be shown is decided not by you but by the company's content policy. The question we asked in Who Holds the Leash on Artificial Intelligence? holds here as well: who holds the leash?
  • Can be withdrawn. The price can be doubled tomorrow, your account can be shut. What remains in your hand is a style that has become dependent on the existence of a tool.

The barrier of capital is not lifted; it changes form. Once you had to buy the camera; now it is not possible to buy the camera. This is not the democratisation of cinema; it is its becoming tenancy. Not a relation in which property has disappeared, but one in which property has become entirely invisible.

The same month, two competitions: the festival as an apparatus of legitimation

It is instructive to set Altın Koza's category beside another competition held in Istanbul in September. The final of the TEKNOFEST Artificial-Intelligence Film Competition was held in Karaköy on 13 September. The organisers: the Ministry of Industry and Technology, the T3 Foundation, Anadolu Agency and Google Turkey. The theme: "The Human Factor in the Age of Artificial Intelligence." Five hundred and ninety-eight teams applied; the competitors produced their films with Google's Gemini and Veo tools. Total prize money: 450,000 lira.

The state's technology festival, in partnership with a US monopoly, has young people shoot films with that monopoly's tools. The theme is "the human factor"; but the human here is a product's trial user.

The same mechanism is at work in the world. Around 300 films applied to the image-production company Runway's artificial-intelligence film festival in 2023; in 2025 this number rose to 6,000. The cinema scholar Joshua Glick reminds us that companies seek "legitimacy and recognition" through these festivals.

In Gramsci's language: hegemony is built not only by force but by consent; and consent is produced most of all in the field of culture. A festival prize stamps a technology with the seal of "art". The monopoly's tool is consecrated with the sacredness of art; the aura Benjamin hoped would be destroyed returns this time not to the work but to the brand.

Altın Koza, though, stands in a different place, and should. It is a municipal festival, it is made with public resources, its screenings are free, it gives labour awards, it bears Yılmaz Güney's name. A public festival is one of the rare places that can set public rules for artificial-intelligence cinema.

The aestheticisation of politics, the politicisation of art

Benjamin ends his essay with a striking afterword. He quotes the manifesto in which the Italian futurist Marinetti glorifies war as an aesthetic experience, and summarises fascism's motto as "Fiat ars, pereat mundus": let art be made, and let the world perish. And he closes with this sentence: fascism is aestheticising politics; communism answers this by politicising art.

This sentence is surprisingly current today. As we showed in From Futurism to Techno-Fascism, Marinetti's worship of the machine is being born again today in Silicon Valley's "accelerationist" ideologues. The aesthetic admiration felt for the machine's speed, power, "inevitability", suppresses the question of who uses it and for what purpose. The enchantment of the artificial-intelligence image is a part of this aestheticisation: by making us say "look how beautiful", it silences the question "whose, and how".

To politicise art does not mean that every artificial-intelligence film must treat a political subject. Benjamin explains this in the 1934 lecture The Author as Producer: it is not enough to ask a work's attitude towards the relations of production; one must ask its place inside the relations of production. The artist who treats a revolutionary subject while leaving the apparatus of production as it is continues to feed that apparatus. What is truly revolutionary is to transform the apparatus of production.

Applied to artificial-intelligence cinema the question becomes clear: if a film is produced with the monopoly's closed tool, on a platform that gathers user data, with rights left uncertain, then however critical its subject, its place inside the relation of production is on the monopoly's side. A film produced with an open tool, with a transparent declaration, without using anyone's face and voice without permission, from a common archive, stands in another place, whatever its subject.

The festival's language, the class's question

The language of the festival and the sectorThe class's question
"Artificial intelligence is now a fact of the world."Is what is real artificial intelligence, or the few monopolies that hold it? To present a fact as if it were a "natural event" is to take it outside history and struggle.
"We are pushing the limits of digital storytelling."Is it the director who pushes the limit, or the company's content policy that draws the limit?
"The young are showing a great interest in this field."Is this interest not the necessity of a generation that cannot afford a crew and a camera? Why does it not turn into a demand for public cinema support?
"Artificial intelligence is a tool; what matters is creativity."The tool is not neutral; it is the materialised form of a social relation. It is a tool whose trainer, whose training data, and whose owner are known.
"Cinema is becoming accessible for everyone."Access, or tenancy? So long as the property of the means of production does not change hands, access is another name for dependence.
"New professions will be born."Which professions will disappear, with what security will those who do those professions make the passage, and who is planning this?
"An artificial-intelligence film is a work of art too."Whose work? What share do the workers of the millions of images that feed the machine take in this work?

Not to shut a category, but to change its rules

Our stance is not "let the artificial-intelligence category be removed". That would be today's form of machine-breaking; the Luddites of the nineteenth century taught us that breaking the machine does not change the machine's owner. Our proposal is that a public festival regulate this category with public principles:

A declaration of tools and data. Let every competing film declare plainly which models, which tools it used, and to which company these belong. Let the spectator know where the image on the screen came from.

Credits for invisible labour. Let there be a note in the credits of artificial-intelligence films concerning the image workers whose labour was used in the training of the models. The symbol is the first step of consciousness.

The principle of consent. Let films that use a real person's face, voice or body without their open consent not be admitted to the competition.

An incentive for open tools. Let a separate incentive or prize be set for films made with open-source models that can run on a local computer and that do not send user data to a company.

Rights remaining with the creator. Let the rights in competing films remain with the directors; let the festival take only a limited and time-bound permission for screening; let a guide be published that informs competitors against the claims of right in the terms of use of image-production companies.

Not taking a share from the budget. Let the artificial-intelligence category not be grown by cutting from the support of the short-film and student-film categories made with human labour.

A common table with cinema workers. Let next year's category be designed together with the unions of actors, voice artists and crew workers. This year the festival awarded labour on opening night; next year it can seat labour at the table of decision.

Another machine that is possible

A programme is not written without a dream. Imagine, in a film school, in a people's house, in a municipality's culture centre, an image model owned by the public, open-source, that does not sell the young people's data to anyone. The archive used to train the model is made of public archives, of images donated by their rights-holders or licensed for a fair fee; the cinematographers, actors, photographers who gave labour to this archive take a share from every use. The child of Çukurova's seasonal agricultural worker is saved from being unable to tell their story because they could not find camera money.

This is not a utopia; it is technically possible today. What blocks it is not technology, it is the property relation. The hope in Marx's fragment on the general intellect, that is, that the machine in which social knowledge is objectified would free humanity from necessary labour, can be realised only when that machine is socialised. As we said in For the Restitution of the General Intellect: The Socialist AI Manifesto Is Out: we are not against the machine, we are against the machine's property.

The difference between two artificial intelligences is not in the code; it is in the property.

Concrete tasks

For young comrades who make films with artificial intelligence:

  • Read the terms of use of the tools you use; learn in whose hands the rights of the image you produce remain, and how your data is used.
  • Try, as far as you can, open-source tools that run locally; do not develop a style dependent on a single company's tool.
  • Be aware of the machine's average; look for your style not inside probability but in the place that breaks it.
  • Do not use real people's faces and voices without their consent.
  • State plainly in your credits the tools you used.
  • See yourselves not as the rival of the crew worker, the voice artist, the actor, but as a different ring of the same class.

For cinema students:

  • Organise a common reading and discussion on artificial intelligence and cinema labour with friends from different universities meeting in the festival's academy programme; Benjamin's two texts are a good start.
  • Ask which companies' tools are being distributed free in your school, and what is taken in return.
  • Learn the artificial-intelligence clauses of contracts in the sector; ask before you sign.

For cinema workers and unions:

  • Spread the discussion the voice artists have begun to all cinema workers; prepare a common contract template covering rights in the face, the voice and the body.
  • Translate the artificial-intelligence clauses of the WGA and SAG-AFTRA agreements into Turkish and open them to discussion.
  • Demand a say in the design of the artificial-intelligence categories of public festivals and cultural institutions.

For the festival and the municipality:

  • Open the principles above to discussion in next year's competition conditions.
  • At the awards ceremony, disclose with which tools the winning films were produced.
  • Hold a panel on artificial intelligence and cinema labour in which the unions take the floor.

Closing: who spins the cocoon?

Young comrades, on Altın Koza's stage this week two awards stand side by side. In one there is the name of workers who have given their lives to the stage, to the sets, to the front and the back of the camera. In the other, the prize of images a machine produced. That these two awards are given at the same festival is not a contradiction; it is our age itself; and dialectics teaches us that a contradiction is not something to be fled from, but something to be passed through.

Çukurova's cotton boll was never spun by the mill-owner; the farmhand picked it, the worker spun it, the weaver wove it. The cocoon of artificial intelligence was not spun by the model's owner either. Millions of photographers, cinematographers, actors, painters, voice artists spun it; the company gathered it, packed it, let it out for rent.

In Yılmaz Güney's Hope, Cabbar keeps digging a dry soil in the hope of finding treasure; his horse is dead, his livelihood is gone, he has tied his hope to a miracle. We will not look at the new technology with that hope. The miracle is not in the machine. The treasure is not under the soil; it is in the hands organised to make it common.

Let the machine be common, let the image remain public, let labour be written in the credits.

After the awards are announced on 3 October we will add an update to this piece on the winning films and the tools they used.

Comradely.

Knowledge belongs to everyone.

Suggested reading

  • Karl Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844 — the chapter "Estranged Labour"
  • Karl Marx, Grundrisse — the "Fragment on Machines"
  • Karl Marx, Capital, Volume I — the chapter "Machinery and Large-Scale Industry"
  • Friedrich Engels, The Part Played by Labour in the Transition from Ape to Man
  • Georg Lukács, History and Class Consciousness — "Reification and the Consciousness of the Proletariat"
  • Walter Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technical Reproducibility
  • Walter Benjamin, The Author as Producer
  • Theodor W. Adorno and Max Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment — the chapter "The Culture Industry"
  • Roland Barthes, The Death of the Author

Sources

The festival and the competition

Artificial-intelligence cinema and artists

Cinema labour and artificial intelligence

Related pieces from Bilgi Müşterekleri

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