The University has a curious habit of championing the wrong victories.

When a De La Salle University – Dasmariñas (DLSU-D) alumnus had his artificial intelligence (AI)-generated short film shortlisted for an international AI film competition in Dubai—one dangling a $1 million prize—the institution rushed to social media with congratulations. Never mind that this same University has remained conspicuously silent about COMPACT, PRISM, or the annual showcases where Multimedia Arts (MMA) and Communication students actually labor over their work. Those efforts, it seems, lack the necessary shimmer. They are just students with cameras and editing software, after all; not algorithms with venture capital backing.

The backlash was swift and predictable. Students—particularly those who spend years learning composition, lighting, narrative structure, and the often unglamorous realities of filmmaking—questioned why the University would celebrate work generated by prompts over work created by human labor. The response was telling. The official Facebook page disabled comments, hid criticism, and reportedly blocked users who dared object. 

We have seen this playbook before, most recently with the uniform redesign controversy. One begins to wonder if the University’s social media strategy includes a well-worn “mute dissent” button.

There is a rather breathtaking irony in an institution that prides itself on being the “greenest university” endorsing technology with a significant environmental footprint. A 2025 study by Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) reveals that AI data centers consumed approximately 460 terawatt-hours globally in 2022—a figure projected to more than double by 2026. Meanwhile, according to Tumboksva (2025), the water usage required to cool these facilities could reach 6.6 billion cubic meters by 2027. These are not abstract statistics. They represent electricity bills, water shortages, and the accelerated climate change. But perhaps “greenest university” was always meant as aspiration rather than commitment, a title to be worn lightly when convenient and discarded when a shinier opportunity presents itself.

The broader implications extend beyond environmental hypocrisy. According to The Wrap (2025), the creative industries lost over 17,000 jobs in 2025 alone as AI displaced roles once held by human workers. Globally, 41% of companies expect to reduce their workforce over the next five years due to artificial intelligence. These are the very industries the University ostensibly prepares its students to enter. One might think an educational institution would hesitate before endorsing a technology actively threatening its graduates’ livelihoods. One would be wrong.

What is particularly galling is the absence of clarity. In its own document, EOMS-CAI-POL-001, the University outlines principles and guidelines for the use of generative AI, emphasizing ethical considerations and human-centered design. It explicitly states that “GenAI technology should support, not hinder, critical thinking and open-ended exploration.” But promoting an AI film suggests otherwise. When the promotional post offered no context about human contribution versus algorithmic output, it sent a message to students currently learning their craft: your effort may be optional. Why spend four years mastering software, studying film theory, and understanding the grammar of visual storytelling when a prompt can conjure a scene in seconds?

This is not Luddism. AI has legitimate applications as a tool: denoising images, streamlining workflows, handling tedious technical tasks. But generating entire films from text prompts is not assistance; it is replacing the artist entirely. Art, as its core, is the translation of human experience—messy, subjective, deeply personal—into something others can witness and feel. When you remove that human struggle, that intentionality, you are left with a technically proficient simulacrum. Impressive, perhaps. Moving? Doubtful.

The Philippines has no legal framework granting copyright to works generated entirely by AI without human creative input. This is not an oversight; it is a recognition that authorship requires a human author. Yet the University promoted such work without addressing this rather significant philosophical and legal ambiguity. We cannot celebrate the alumnus for his skill at prompt engineering or for his patience waiting while servers processed his requests. The criteria remain undefined, likely because defining them would expose how hollow the achievement actually is.

Meanwhile, Filipino artists continue building a genuine creative community—one based on mutual learning, shared struggle, and collaboration. Local art markets, student exhibitions, and independent film festivals testify to this community: artists supporting artists, learning from each other’s techniques, and celebrating each other’s breakthroughs. This ecosystem is what the University should be nurturing. Instead, it has chosen to amplify technology that fundamentally undermines it, that treats artistic labor as inefficient and ripe for automation.

The cruelty is in the selectivity. MMA students organize PRISM annually; the University’s Facebook page does not mention it. Communication students produce work worthy of recognition; they are left to promote themselves or rely on program councils. But an AI-generated film shortlisted for a competition? That receives official institutional endorsement, complete with the University claiming the alumnus as proof of its educational excellence.

One suspects the $1 million prize played no small role in this calculation. Prestige, after all, is easier to market than principle. A potential million-dollar winner reflects well in promotional materials. It is bankable. Real student achievement—the kind that happens in campus studios and editing bays, that involves actual creative risk—offers no such return on investment.

If this were an isolated incident, it might be forgiven as poor judgment. But it fits a pattern. The University has shown itself willing to silence “inconvenient” voices, to prioritize image over integrity, to restrict student expression when it becomes uncomfortable. Certain offices’ requirement that student leaders secure administrative approval before making public statements. The summoning of student activists who criticized administrative decisions. Blocking its students from its official platforms is but a small example of this pattern.

The common thread is control. Control the narrative, control the image, control what can be said and celebrated. But you cannot control the truth: that this endorsement betrayed the University’s own students, undermined its environmental claims, and revealed what it actually values when push comes to shove.

Art is made by people. Films are directed by human beings who make choices, who struggle with limitations, who bring their lived experience to their work. That is not romanticism; that is definitional.

The University still has the opportunity to clarify its position, to articulate clear policies on AI in creative work, and to acknowledge why this celebration felt like a slap to students who actually create. It could start by giving COMPACT and PRISM the same enthusiasm it reserves for algorithmically generated content. It could stop treating student criticism as a public relations problem and start treating it as feedback worth considering.

But that would require valuing substance over appearance, students over statistics, and principle over prestige. Based on recent evidence, we are not optimistic.