James Cameron: ‘For the films I like to make to continue to exist, we have to find a way to make them cheaper’

In times of declining box office numbers and shrinking budgets, the king of the world is stepping on the gas. James Cameron, 71, returns to Pandora with Avatar: Fire and Ash, the third installment of the saga, “the most dramatic and focused on the emotions of its protagonists,” the director, less arrogant than expected, asserted last week during an interview in a Paris hotel. The film, which opened in theaters on December 19, cost more than $400 million in a period of market contraction that threatens the existence of these kinds of blockbusters.

A year after settling among the Metkayina, Jake and Neytiri’s family faces a new Na’vi tribe — the Ash Folk, led by the fearsome Varang — whose alliance with the evil Quaritch threatens to reopen Pandora. Any resemblance to a reality rife with conflict between people cannot be a coincidence. “Even though it’s about blue, enormously tall people living on another planet, it’s a film about the human race,” Cameron clarified, just in case it was necessary.

Question. Is Avatar: Fire and Ash a commentary on a world turned into a battlefield? Today, even major Hollywood productions seem like parables about the dangers of fascism.

Answer. You’re right! For example, Wicked is, at its core, a film about authoritarianism and disinformation. It’s curious: these scripts were written 12 years ago, but they resonate especially now. I see a trend away from democracy, toward more hatred and isolation. Since the first Avatar, the values have been acceptance of others, empathy, connection, and respect for the natural world. Those values haven’t changed, but perhaps they’re more necessary today. I’m saddened to say that the world has worsened since we started telling these stories.

Q. In your film, even the pacifists end up fighting.

A. The Tulkun, who are opposed to violence, have to make a very difficult decision when threatened with extinction. I think there are things worth fighting for if you face an existential risk, an overwhelming evil in the form of a fascist force, for example. It’s a complex issue. Can our capacity for empathy prevent us from reaching those scenarios of war? That’s the question…

Q. Has witnessing current conflicts in real time, with continuous images of destruction and displacement, changed your way of portraying war or violence?

A. As a director, I’ve always had a conflict: I crave peace, but I enjoy action on screen. Let’s not kid ourselves: action equals violence. Where I truly feel torn, as an artist, is when I see gratuitous violence in film. That’s very problematic.

Up until now, the business model has been a bit precarious: you spend a lot of money to make a lot of money. If you spend a lot and don’t make a lot, the whole thing collapses

Q. You were talking about existential risks. Are humans also in danger of extinction?

A. We can’t say it isn’t a possibility. The question is whether we can evolve enough to use our mirror neurons, our ability to recognize the emotional states of others, and thus avoid our dehumanization. When we think about migrants, displaced populations, or people from other cultures, are we capable of breaking the cycle of violence? “The fire of hatred leaves only the ashes of grief,” says the film’s narrator. Those ashes, in turn, lead back to the fire of hatred, and the cycle repeats. That’s what we see today all over the world. Can we break that cycle, stop using our trauma as justification for violence? These themes are present in the film and are intentional.

Q. Even if we don’t disappear as a species, it seems obvious that we will have to coexist with other forms of intelligence: what theorists call posthumanism.

A. I’ve always been fascinated by the posthuman. Will it be a world of cyborgs? Will it be genetically engineered? Will we merge with technology? Will our minds be more sophisticated? Or will we have disappeared as a species, and will our intelligence only survive within machines? These are questions that science fiction has always asked, because it has always had the capacity to warn us, to illuminate the road ahead. And now, in a way, we are entering that world it has been anticipating for more than a century. The Chinese proverb says: “May you live in interesting times.” We are living in them. I insist: self-destruction is by no means off the table, and we must be realistic about that possibility.

Q. Would you say that AI is a danger to our survival?

A. Yes. I believe there is a serious threat from artificial superintelligence. And I also believe that the risk of nuclear conflict is greater today than at any time since the peak of the Cold War, during the Cuban Missile Crisis. We have to face all of that head-on and not hide from it. That said, we also have to live and enjoy ourselves, and that’s where cinema can play a role. The great irony, which I’m sure you’re aware of, is that we leave behind the anxieties of daily life to go into a theater and indulge in the anxieties of fictional characters who are quite similar to us…

Q. You recently said that AI-generated actors seemed “horrible” to you. Do you see any version of AI that could help you as a creator, or do you reject it outright?

A. I don’t rule out generative AI as a tool, but we have to tame the genie. Those who build these models are primarily focused on business and mass consumption: they try to create a product they can monetize. My process begins with writing and then moves on to acting. I’m not going to eliminate actors; that would be stupid. Can there be models and tools that help in certain phases of visual effects work? There almost certainly will be, but right now they don’t exist. What I’ll never be interested in replacing are the actors, the artists. In any case, the Avatar films, including this latest one, have never used generative AI. It’s important that people know that.

Q. Technology has played a huge role in your filmography. But I wonder if you don’t miss the era when, to achieve an epic scale in cinema, you had to actually build the ship and fill the set with water, as you did in Titanic.

A. No, I don’t miss it. It was fun, don’t get me wrong: having 3,000 extras in one shot is impressive and enjoyable. But it’s not essential. Today you can make epic films without sacrificing anything and, at the same time, reduce costs with many of these new tools. The urgent thing is to develop technology that truly lowers production costs. That’s key because the theatrical movie market has shrunk considerably, by around 30% or 35%. For the films I like to watch and make to continue to exist, we have to find a way to make them cheaper so they become profitable again.

Q. Given their cost, are Avatar 4 and 5 guaranteed in the current context?

A. No, they aren’t. We need to see how this film performs. We need to look at ways we can lower the cost. So it might not be something I jump into right away. It might be something I postpone for a couple of years until these new tools emerge.

Q. Could you stop directing this saga?

A. I might choose to do something else. If I were to quit, I would still produce those films, as long as they’re financially viable. Up until now, the business model has been a bit precarious: you spend a lot of money to make a lot of money. If you spend a lot and don’t make a lot, the whole thing collapses. Now, there’s something very joyful about being able to bring people a big, magical, spectacular experience. It’s very fun and satisfying. But if that model collapses, I’ll still be a storyteller. I’ll do something else.

Hollywood was never an obsession for me. I didn’t know anyone who was a filmmaker. From the beginning, I always felt like an outsider in Hollywood

Q. What would you like to do?

A. There’s Alita: Battle Angel, a sequel I’m doing with Robert Rodríguez. We’re adapting the screenplay from a book called The Devils by Joe Abercrombie, which I quite like. And I have a film about Hiroshima that I fully intend to make. It could be next… or maybe I’ll fit it in with the next Avatar films. I haven’t decided yet. When I’m sure, I’ll let you know.

Q. How did you manage to survive Titanic, one of those projects that only happens once in a career?

A. I think we’ve shown that it doesn’t have to happen just once... But yes, it was a defining moment for me in many ways. The perception of me changed: I stopped being the fantasy and science fiction guy. I proved that there could be a balance between humanity, emotion, and a monumental scale of production.

Q. After that, you took a sabbatical year that lasted for seven years.

A. I went off on ocean expeditions, developing deep-sea cameras. I left in early 1998, when Titanic had become the highest-grossing film of all time, and I didn’t return to Hollywood until 2005. People thought I was doing research for my next project. Are you kidding me? Seven years? My imagination works pretty well. I don’t need seven years to write a screenplay.

Q. You grew up in rural Canada obsessed with science fiction and comics. Did your imagination save you?

A. The place we come from or where we spent our early years always defines us. The family dynamics we witnessed as children leave their mark. You can then fight against that and work through it in therapy. Or you can embrace it and accept that it’s who you are. No one talks to me about it, but this issue comes up in many of my films. What does it mean to grow up in rural Canada? Perhaps a sense of work, of effort. Perhaps maintaining a certain humility, even at the height of a Hollywood career. Actually, Hollywood was never an obsession for me. I didn’t know anyone who was a filmmaker. From the beginning, I always felt like an outsider in Hollywood. To tell you the truth, I’ve never felt like I was ever in…

Q. Are you serious?

A. Yes, even now. Today I don’t feel like a Hollywood insider at all. I live in New Zealand. I don’t associate with Hollywood people. I’m not drawn to glamorous things or events. Even standing in front of you to discuss my film feels a little awkward. But a true artist should be able to talk about their process…

People took it as some fascist declaration of global domination. Needless to say, that wasn’t the intention. I assumed everyone in the room was a big fan of Titanic. And, clearly, that wasn’t the case.

Q. Have you ever felt misunderstood by the industry?

A. I feel misunderstood all the time. There’s this idea in Hollywood that you’re either a tactical guy who knows how to navigate the industry or you’re a sentimental, artistic, human, humanist filmmaker. What utter nonsense! Our brains are complicated. I can be all those things at once. Writing anchors me to the character and the emotion. Then I move on to working with the actors, and the technical aspects only come at the end. The beauty of an Avatar film is that I can use my right hemisphere during the first half of the work and my left hemisphere in the second. Neuroscience now says that’s all an absurd oversimplification, but it works for me as an allegory…

Q. What is it that they don’t understand about you?

A. I’m treated like a technology geek. It’s a huge misunderstanding. Yes, I’m very interested in technology and engineering. But that doesn’t mean I can’t spend a year and a half with my cast, exploring the dramatic dimension of the film and the psychology of the characters. Directing isn’t about pushing buttons; it’s about feeling it. And if I can’t cry with my film, I can’t expect the audience to. I can’t expect the actors to reach the necessary emotional place, and even less so the viewer. That’s what people don’t understand about me.

Q. You shouted “I’m the king of the world!” upon Titanic winning 11 Oscars in 1998. You were heavily criticized and ridiculed. Do you regret that speech?

A. I don’t know if it was a misunderstanding or if they deliberately didn’t listen to me. It didn’t sadden me, but it was frustrating. Although I know I tripped myself up… I was just trying to express how happy I was at that moment. We had survived all that and they were celebrating us. People took it as some fascist declaration of global domination. Needless to say, that wasn’t the intention. I assumed everyone in the room was a big fan of Titanic. And, clearly, that wasn’t the case.

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