The Looming Algorithm
Fran sits amidst a community grappling with the rapid onset of AI. Voices rise and fall, debating the threat and promise of technology in preserving and communicating their unique stories and identities in Northwestern Ontario.
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - LATE AFTERNOON
A humble, lived-in space. Muted autumn light streams through large, condensation-beaded windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room is filled with mismatched plastic chairs, a long folding table, and the faint, cloying aroma of stale coffee.
SOUND of low MURMURS, the gentle CLANK of an old radiator
Seated around the table are a dozen community members. Our focus is on a few key figures.
MR. BOUCHARD (70s), an Elder with eyes the color of faded denim and gnarled, knowing hands. LARRY (40s), the poised facilitator. WILLOW (20s), a filmmaker with a shock of brightly dyed hair. DR. KRENSHAW (40s), an academic in a plaid shirt.
And the NARRATOR (20s), who watches, listens, and grips a pen over a notebook.
Mr. Bouchard’s voice, a gravelly river stone, cuts through the murmurs, silencing the room.
MR. BOUCHARD
> —and so the concern, as I see it, is not merely one of displacement, but of an insidious erosion. When we entrust our narratives, our very ways of seeing the world, to a machine, what then of the human hand? The lived experience?
He rests his hands flat on the table. The old wood GROANS softly under the gesture.
MR. BOUCHARD (CONT'D)
> Can an algorithm truly comprehend the nuance of a Cree syllabic, or the weight of a particular turn of phrase in Anishinaabemowin, when its training data is, at best, a pale echo of our collective memory?
His gaze sweeps across the faces, landing for a fleeting second on the Narrator. A silent challenge.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR
Their pulse quickens. They shift in their chair—the plastic SQUEALS beneath them. They grip their pen tighter.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> He had articulated the fear that had been a dull ache in my own chest for months. Winter 2025 felt closer than ever, a looming horizon of digital unknowns.
Larry pushes her spectacles higher on her nose, a practiced gesture for navigating difficult discussions. Her voice is a smooth, measured balm.
LARRY
> I appreciate your candour, Mr. Bouchard. However, we must also consider the practicalities. The sheer speed at which these tools are being adopted by larger institutions – media companies, publishing houses. If we do not engage, do we risk being left behind, our voices drowned out in the amplified clamour of AI-generated content produced elsewhere?
Willow leans forward, her tone direct, less philosophical.
WILLOW
> Drowned out, yes, but also denied. The cost of traditional media production, the barriers to entry, they’re immense. I mean, even for my short films, the editing alone… the hours, the software licences.
She gestures with an expressive hand. A loose strand of her bright hair falls across her eye.
WILLOW (CONT'D)
> AI could democratise that. It could allow us to tell stories with a production quality that was previously impossible for a community group like ours, on our budget. Imagine the reach, the impact, if our elders' stories could be animated, subtitled, translated, and disseminated globally, not just locally.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> She was right. The promise of an AI assistant that could handle the tedious parts, freeing me to focus on the narrative, was intoxicating. But then... the image of a machine interpreting the subtle inflections of a traditional story...
A tremor of unease runs through the Narrator.
Mr. Bouchard’s voice deepens, a slight tremor in his tone.
MR. BOUCHARD
> But at what cost, Willow? At what cost does efficiency become a substitute for authenticity? We are speaking of our histories, our very identities, not commercial jingles. How does a machine learn the feeling of the land beneath our feet, the shared humour in a glance, the unspoken grief carried through generations? It cannot. It processes data. It does not feel.
Dr. Krenshaw interjects, her posture and tone radiating academic rigour.
DR. KRENSHAW
> Precisely. Mr. Bouchard raises a crucial distinction. Current AI models, particularly large language models, are pattern-matching systems. They extrapolate based on vast datasets. They do not ‘understand’ in the human sense. They do not possess consciousness or lived experience. What they produce is a statistical approximation of human creativity, not an original thought process born of subjective experience. If the input data is biased, or incomplete, the output will reflect those biases and gaps.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR'S NOTEBOOK
They scribble furiously: *statistical approximation ≠ original thought*.
DR. KRENSHAW (CONT'D)
> However...
She holds up a single finger, commanding attention.
DR. KRENSHAW (CONT'D)
> ...that doesn’t negate their potential as tools. A hammer does not build a house, but it is indispensable to the carpenter. The question becomes: who controls the hammer? Who wields it, and for what purpose? And crucially, who defines the blueprint?
A heavy silence falls. The implications hang in the air.
SOUND of the radiators CLANKING, a metallic sigh.
The energy in the room has shifted. It’s no longer a debate, but a problem to be solved.
Larry’s voice regains its steady cadence.
LARRY
> So, if we accept that AI tools exist, and are becoming increasingly ubiquitous, then our task is to ensure that our community, our nations, are not simply passive consumers of these technologies. We must be active shapers. We must develop the skills, the literacy, to interrogate, adapt, and even build our own iterations of these tools. Tools that are trained on our stories, by our storytellers, for our people.
Willow nods emphatically, her enthusiasm a warm current.
WILLOW
> Exactly. Think of it like this: if Hollywood is going to make a movie about us, it’s always going to be through their lens, right? It’s never quite… authentic. But what if *we* had the tools, the AI, to generate storyboards, to write scripts, to edit films that are truly reflective of our identity, our humour, our struggles, without needing external funding or gatekeepers? That’s empowerment.
Mr. Bouchard hums, a low rumble in his throat. His caution remains, a steady undertow.
MR. BOUCHARD
> Empowerment… yes. But what of the training data, as Dr. Krenshaw mentioned? If these tools learn from the internet, from databases compiled without our consent, then they are already tainted. They are already replicating colonial narratives. How do we ensure the sanctity of our oral traditions, our sacred knowledge, when it enters a digital realm that seeks to consume and re-process everything?
DR. KRENSHAW
> That is precisely where community autonomy comes in. We would need to curate our own datasets. To control what information the AI learns from. To perhaps develop smaller, specialized models, focused purely on our linguistic and cultural nuances, rather than relying on generic, global models. This requires significant investment in data sovereignty, in digital archives, and in training local specialists.
The Narrator’s pen hovers over the page. The words *Data Sovereignty* feel weighty, important.
Larry looks out the window at the blurred, fading autumn landscape.
LARRY
> It won’t be easy. There are legal frameworks, ethical guidelines to develop, technical infrastructure to build. This isn’t a quick fix. But the alternative, to remain disengaged, feels like a greater risk to our narrative future. To allow others to define the terms of this technological evolution, to allow the algorithms to be designed without our input—that is the true relinquishing of power.
A faint, rare smile plays on Mr. Bouchard’s lips.
MR. BOUCHARD
> So, we are to become digital weavers, then? To thread our own stories into the loom of this new machine, rather than simply accepting the patterns others have designed for us.
He looks at the Narrator. A jolt of recognition. His apprehension has transformed into a recognition of agency.
Willow leans forward, pulling the theoretical into the tangible.
WILLOW
> And what about actual skills development? My cousin, Odell, he’s always messing around with code, building little apps. Could he learn to adapt these AI models? To make them genuinely useful for our specific needs? Not just for story-making, but for preserving language, for cultural revitalization projects?
DR. KRENSHAW
> Absolutely. The underlying principles of many AI tools are becoming more accessible. The learning curve is steep, but manageable, especially for young people with existing technical aptitudes. We could establish workshops, mentorship programmes. The goal is not just to use the tools, but to understand their mechanics, to be able to modify them, to truly own them.
The sun has dipped below the treeline. The last of the natural light fades. Larry gets up and FLICKS a switch. The warm, focused glow of the hall's fluorescent lights hums to life, pushing back the encroaching indigo of dusk.
The conversation continues, faster now, more concrete, discussing funding, partners, priorities. A sense of collective responsibility settles over the room.
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - NIGHT
An hour later. The meeting winds down. The air feels lighter.
The Narrator closes their notebook. Their fingers ache slightly.
ANGLE ON the window. Outside, the world is dark. Inside, the faces are illuminated, focused.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> The weight of the algorithms, the disruption, it was still there, a constant hum at the edge of my awareness. But now, nestled beside it, was a growing, quiet determination. It wasn’t about fighting the future, but about claiming our rightful place within it, on our own terms. I didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? I just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second.
The Narrator looks around at the others—at Willow, at Larry, at Mr. Bouchard. A community, ready to weave.
FADE OUT.
A humble, lived-in space. Muted autumn light streams through large, condensation-beaded windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room is filled with mismatched plastic chairs, a long folding table, and the faint, cloying aroma of stale coffee.
SOUND of low MURMURS, the gentle CLANK of an old radiator
Seated around the table are a dozen community members. Our focus is on a few key figures.
MR. BOUCHARD (70s), an Elder with eyes the color of faded denim and gnarled, knowing hands. LARRY (40s), the poised facilitator. WILLOW (20s), a filmmaker with a shock of brightly dyed hair. DR. KRENSHAW (40s), an academic in a plaid shirt.
And the NARRATOR (20s), who watches, listens, and grips a pen over a notebook.
Mr. Bouchard’s voice, a gravelly river stone, cuts through the murmurs, silencing the room.
MR. BOUCHARD
> —and so the concern, as I see it, is not merely one of displacement, but of an insidious erosion. When we entrust our narratives, our very ways of seeing the world, to a machine, what then of the human hand? The lived experience?
He rests his hands flat on the table. The old wood GROANS softly under the gesture.
MR. BOUCHARD (CONT'D)
> Can an algorithm truly comprehend the nuance of a Cree syllabic, or the weight of a particular turn of phrase in Anishinaabemowin, when its training data is, at best, a pale echo of our collective memory?
His gaze sweeps across the faces, landing for a fleeting second on the Narrator. A silent challenge.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR
Their pulse quickens. They shift in their chair—the plastic SQUEALS beneath them. They grip their pen tighter.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> He had articulated the fear that had been a dull ache in my own chest for months. Winter 2025 felt closer than ever, a looming horizon of digital unknowns.
Larry pushes her spectacles higher on her nose, a practiced gesture for navigating difficult discussions. Her voice is a smooth, measured balm.
LARRY
> I appreciate your candour, Mr. Bouchard. However, we must also consider the practicalities. The sheer speed at which these tools are being adopted by larger institutions – media companies, publishing houses. If we do not engage, do we risk being left behind, our voices drowned out in the amplified clamour of AI-generated content produced elsewhere?
Willow leans forward, her tone direct, less philosophical.
WILLOW
> Drowned out, yes, but also denied. The cost of traditional media production, the barriers to entry, they’re immense. I mean, even for my short films, the editing alone… the hours, the software licences.
She gestures with an expressive hand. A loose strand of her bright hair falls across her eye.
WILLOW (CONT'D)
> AI could democratise that. It could allow us to tell stories with a production quality that was previously impossible for a community group like ours, on our budget. Imagine the reach, the impact, if our elders' stories could be animated, subtitled, translated, and disseminated globally, not just locally.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> She was right. The promise of an AI assistant that could handle the tedious parts, freeing me to focus on the narrative, was intoxicating. But then... the image of a machine interpreting the subtle inflections of a traditional story...
A tremor of unease runs through the Narrator.
Mr. Bouchard’s voice deepens, a slight tremor in his tone.
MR. BOUCHARD
> But at what cost, Willow? At what cost does efficiency become a substitute for authenticity? We are speaking of our histories, our very identities, not commercial jingles. How does a machine learn the feeling of the land beneath our feet, the shared humour in a glance, the unspoken grief carried through generations? It cannot. It processes data. It does not feel.
Dr. Krenshaw interjects, her posture and tone radiating academic rigour.
DR. KRENSHAW
> Precisely. Mr. Bouchard raises a crucial distinction. Current AI models, particularly large language models, are pattern-matching systems. They extrapolate based on vast datasets. They do not ‘understand’ in the human sense. They do not possess consciousness or lived experience. What they produce is a statistical approximation of human creativity, not an original thought process born of subjective experience. If the input data is biased, or incomplete, the output will reflect those biases and gaps.
CLOSE ON THE NARRATOR'S NOTEBOOK
They scribble furiously: *statistical approximation ≠ original thought*.
DR. KRENSHAW (CONT'D)
> However...
She holds up a single finger, commanding attention.
DR. KRENSHAW (CONT'D)
> ...that doesn’t negate their potential as tools. A hammer does not build a house, but it is indispensable to the carpenter. The question becomes: who controls the hammer? Who wields it, and for what purpose? And crucially, who defines the blueprint?
A heavy silence falls. The implications hang in the air.
SOUND of the radiators CLANKING, a metallic sigh.
The energy in the room has shifted. It’s no longer a debate, but a problem to be solved.
Larry’s voice regains its steady cadence.
LARRY
> So, if we accept that AI tools exist, and are becoming increasingly ubiquitous, then our task is to ensure that our community, our nations, are not simply passive consumers of these technologies. We must be active shapers. We must develop the skills, the literacy, to interrogate, adapt, and even build our own iterations of these tools. Tools that are trained on our stories, by our storytellers, for our people.
Willow nods emphatically, her enthusiasm a warm current.
WILLOW
> Exactly. Think of it like this: if Hollywood is going to make a movie about us, it’s always going to be through their lens, right? It’s never quite… authentic. But what if *we* had the tools, the AI, to generate storyboards, to write scripts, to edit films that are truly reflective of our identity, our humour, our struggles, without needing external funding or gatekeepers? That’s empowerment.
Mr. Bouchard hums, a low rumble in his throat. His caution remains, a steady undertow.
MR. BOUCHARD
> Empowerment… yes. But what of the training data, as Dr. Krenshaw mentioned? If these tools learn from the internet, from databases compiled without our consent, then they are already tainted. They are already replicating colonial narratives. How do we ensure the sanctity of our oral traditions, our sacred knowledge, when it enters a digital realm that seeks to consume and re-process everything?
DR. KRENSHAW
> That is precisely where community autonomy comes in. We would need to curate our own datasets. To control what information the AI learns from. To perhaps develop smaller, specialized models, focused purely on our linguistic and cultural nuances, rather than relying on generic, global models. This requires significant investment in data sovereignty, in digital archives, and in training local specialists.
The Narrator’s pen hovers over the page. The words *Data Sovereignty* feel weighty, important.
Larry looks out the window at the blurred, fading autumn landscape.
LARRY
> It won’t be easy. There are legal frameworks, ethical guidelines to develop, technical infrastructure to build. This isn’t a quick fix. But the alternative, to remain disengaged, feels like a greater risk to our narrative future. To allow others to define the terms of this technological evolution, to allow the algorithms to be designed without our input—that is the true relinquishing of power.
A faint, rare smile plays on Mr. Bouchard’s lips.
MR. BOUCHARD
> So, we are to become digital weavers, then? To thread our own stories into the loom of this new machine, rather than simply accepting the patterns others have designed for us.
He looks at the Narrator. A jolt of recognition. His apprehension has transformed into a recognition of agency.
Willow leans forward, pulling the theoretical into the tangible.
WILLOW
> And what about actual skills development? My cousin, Odell, he’s always messing around with code, building little apps. Could he learn to adapt these AI models? To make them genuinely useful for our specific needs? Not just for story-making, but for preserving language, for cultural revitalization projects?
DR. KRENSHAW
> Absolutely. The underlying principles of many AI tools are becoming more accessible. The learning curve is steep, but manageable, especially for young people with existing technical aptitudes. We could establish workshops, mentorship programmes. The goal is not just to use the tools, but to understand their mechanics, to be able to modify them, to truly own them.
The sun has dipped below the treeline. The last of the natural light fades. Larry gets up and FLICKS a switch. The warm, focused glow of the hall's fluorescent lights hums to life, pushing back the encroaching indigo of dusk.
The conversation continues, faster now, more concrete, discussing funding, partners, priorities. A sense of collective responsibility settles over the room.
INT. COMMUNITY HALL - NIGHT
An hour later. The meeting winds down. The air feels lighter.
The Narrator closes their notebook. Their fingers ache slightly.
ANGLE ON the window. Outside, the world is dark. Inside, the faces are illuminated, focused.
NARRATOR (V.O.)
> The weight of the algorithms, the disruption, it was still there, a constant hum at the edge of my awareness. But now, nestled beside it, was a growing, quiet determination. It wasn’t about fighting the future, but about claiming our rightful place within it, on our own terms. I didn't know if this was supposed to feel… anything. Warm? Comforting? I just… didn’t feel alone, not for a second.
The Narrator looks around at the others—at Willow, at Larry, at Mr. Bouchard. A community, ready to weave.
FADE OUT.