Share your best AI workflow. We could show it to 2M+ people.

I produce cinematic AI video. What ruins a sequence is almost never image quality; it is drift. The face, jacket, and light change between shots, so what should read as one scene becomes a gallery of near misses. Most people fight this by regenerating until something matches. I built the opposite: a set of chained Claude skills that locks a character once and never lets the model improvise again. The lesson that started it cost me 72 credits in one unusable shot. I fed a finished POV frame as an image reference to “set the world” for a motorcycle sequence. The model treated it as a strong identity reference, cloned the entire cockpit from that frame, and ignored the bike I was describing in the prompt. Image references are read as identity, not atmosphere. That misunderstanding is why most people’s characters mutate. Step-by-step: 1. I lock the character before generating anything. I fill nine layers in order: identity and facial structure, skin realism, wardrobe and materials, emotional energy, environment, lighting scheme, camera language, vertical 9:16 framing, and a fixed block of negative instructions. A generic prompt returns a generic face. This is direction, not a portrait. 2. I shoot a character sheet: a neutral, multi-view image of the locked character on white. That sheet—not a pretty hero frame—is what I reuse as a reference from then on. 3. I expand coverage instead of reinventing the scene. One locked scene becomes a full shot list with hero angles, macro inserts, and establishing shots. The subject, wardrobe, weather, and lighting never change between prompts. Only the camera, focal length, framing, and distance change. Every prompt restates the entire world from scratch because the generator has no memory between images. Consistency comes from redundancy, not from the model remembering. 4. I time the story before animating. I create a 3x3 board with nine beats over fifteen seconds, with each panel showing its timecode, shot title, and action. The rule is strict: the character, wardrobe, world, and light stay identical across all nine panels; only the story advances. The emotional scale rises toward panel nine. 5. I generate with reference discipline. I pass the object or vehicle in a clean exterior shot as the only image reference, then describe the world, framing, and interior in text, repeating that description word for word across shots. I chain consecutive shots by feeding the last frame of one as the start image of the next. The joins are invisible. 6. I review the board against the renders, keep the shots that hold, and regenerate only the ones that drift. The result is that I stopped paying the regeneration tax. Shots are budgeted, not gambled, and a fifteen-second sequence holds together because it was blocked like a real scene—with coverage and continuity—before a single frame existed. The nine-layer character build and the coverage framework are adapted from two AI video courses plus twenty years of production. I learned the reference discipline in step five the expensive way.

Ten days ago, I posted about keeping a `HANDOFF.md` so an AI film project doesn't lose the decisions it has already made. This is the other half, and it turned out to be the expensive one: the decisions that haven't been made yet. Credit where it belongs: Tony Ojeda posted a spec-generator agent that sits between an idea and implementation. The rule I borrowed is his: the agent inspects what already exists before proposing anything. I applied it to film production instead of code. I pointed an agent at my production documents for a short film I hadn't started generating and asked it to identify what was still undecided, what each item affected, and what would break if it were decided late. It came back with ten open decisions. One of them was worth the whole exercise. My environment description is locked verbatim across all 40 shots so the world stays identical. The film is called *The Thaw*. Whether the ice visibly melts during the film is written down nowhere. If I decide that in week three, all 40 keyframes get regenerated at once. I would have found out around shot 12. The counterintuitive part is who writes the list: not me. Asking the person who already has the whole film in their head what's missing gets you very little, because they have all of it—and that's exactly why they can't see the hole. The list has to come from something that only knows what's written down. Step-by-step: 1. I put the open questions in section 0 of the handoff, above everything else, so it's the first thing read and the first thing emptied. 2. I have the agent write that list, not me. It reads every existing document for the project and returns only what it cannot know from them. 3. I have it return three things for each item: what's undecided, which shots it affects, and what breaks if it's decided late. The third column sets the priority. 4. I have it sort by what costs the most to change afterward, not by what's easiest to answer. 5. I keep one hard rule: while an open question affects a shot, that shot doesn't get generated. The question gets decided, or deferred in writing with the cost of being wrong stated. 6. Every answered item leaves section 0 through one of two doors: into the closed canon or into the rejected list. Nothing is simply deleted. 7. I ask specifically about the things that go missing every time: the rule of the world; the physical scale of anything impossible, such as whether the character can touch or climb it; any object appearing in more than one shot; screen direction; how it ends; who speaks and in what voice; and the delivery format. 8. When it finds nothing real, it says so. A list padded to look thorough is worse than an empty one. The version I'd used for a year ran at the end of a session and recorded what got decided. Running it at the start, focused on what hasn't been decided, is the same document pointed the other way—and it's the direction that saves money.

I spent twenty years producing documentary and nonfiction films, all of it the expensive way: crews, schedules, financing, and commissioners saying no. I'm proud of much of that work, and I still think about the films that never got made because the money wasn't there. Generative video pulled me in, but not for the reason people assume. It wasn't the speed or the cost. It was the fact that I could finally finish something without asking anyone for permission. No green light from a major platform. Nobody deciding that a story was too small to deserve a crew. A year later, I could produce this way. It turned out to be a different job rather than the same job with new tools. Then I ran into a problem I hadn't considered: how do you show the work? A finished shot doesn't prove much anymore. A client can look at a beautiful frame and have no way to tell whether it took three weeks or three minutes. If I'm honest, neither would I in their position. The thing every portfolio is built to display had stopped being evidence. I'm not a developer. I produce films. The site is bilingual, has seven sections, includes a case study for each film, plays video on hover, and has a comparison slider that works with a thumb as well as a mouse. I built all of it. I'd wanted this exact site for about fifteen years and had never managed to explain it properly to anyone I paid to make it. This time, I stopped explaining and built it myself. The middle of the page has a slider that you drag between the storyboard panel and the final shot. A basic before-and-after would prove nothing; you can fake that by generating twice. The storyboard is the proof because the framing, eyeline, and decision about what stays outside the frame all existed on paper before any model was asked to generate anything. You drag the handle and watch the intention survive. The rest of the site came from the same place. Video only plays on hover and is silent until you click for sound. Most video portfolios are unreadable because fifteen things start moving at once. The sections are organized by register rather than by client: epic, brand, animation, and lifestyle. A wall of logos answers who has hired you, which nobody is actually wondering. What they want to know is whether you can change tone. Nothing is cropped to fit the grid. A 5:33 film sits in 16:9 next to a 2:42 film in scope, and the layout is lopsided because of it. I nearly made them uniform because it looked tidier, then realized I was about to reformat my own films so a webpage would look neat. Anyone who cuts for a living spots that immediately. Concepts are labeled as concepts. Experiments have their own section instead of being scattered among the client work and hoping nobody asks which is which. Step-by-step: 1. I started from what my client couldn't verify: the craft behind a shot. 2. I found the artifact that proves it. It's usually the ugly thing nobody publishes: the storyboard, the reference sheet, or the version before the good version. 3. I put that artifact next to the finished piece inside one interaction, so nobody has to search for the proof. 4. I made playback deliberate. Video plays on hover, and sound requires a click. 5. I sorted the work by the question being asked rather than by the credentials I wanted to lead with. 6. I didn't reformat the work to fit the layout. I let the grid be uneven. 7. I labeled everything honestly: client, concept, or experiment. One word each can pay for the credibility of the whole page. 8. I wrote a brief for each section as a document first. Arguing with a paragraph is free; arguing with a built page is not. 9. I built the site with an AI coding tool. This was the least interesting step, even though it's the one everyone writes about. If your work can be mistaken for a lucky prompt, stop trying to prove it with the finished piece. The site is at www.termopilas.tv if you want to drag the handle yourself.