International
Trump to slap 100 per cent tariff on foreign films?
WASHINGTON: Donald Trump has declared war on foreign-made movies. The American president announced on Monday that he would impose a 100 per cent tariff on all films produced outside the United States, threatening to blow up Hollywood’s international operations. As well as possible revenues that Indian films make in Uncle Sam.
The move, posted on Trump’s Truth Social platform, marks an audacious expansion of his protectionist trade agenda into cultural industries. “Our movie making business has been stolen from the United States of America, by other Countries, just like stealing candy from a baby,” he wrote, taking a swipe at California’s “weak and incompetent” governor Gavin Newsom.
Yet the announcement left crucial questions unanswered. The White House offered no details on the legal authority Trump would invoke or how such tariffs would work in practice. Studio executives are baffled: modern filmmaking splices together production, financing, post-production and visual effects from multiple countries. How would a film shot in New Zealand with British money and American stars be classified?
Legal experts are equally sceptical. Films are intellectual property traded as services—a category where America typically runs a surplus. That raises doubts about whether tariffs can even be applied. Co-productions with foreign studios have become routine, further muddying the waters.
Trump first floated the idea in May, calling foreign productions a “national security threat” that imports “messaging and propaganda.” Entertainment executives were flummoxed then and remain so now.
The industry has increasingly decamped from Hollywood to chase tax breaks in Britain, Australia and New Zealand. California is scrambling to compete: Newsom has pushed to expand the state’s film tax credits. But some productions film abroad simply because their stories demand it. Directors like Denis Villeneuve and Christopher Nolan favour shooting on location rather than on soundstages.
The major American studios declined to comment to Reuters. Netflix shares, however, slipped 1.5 per cent in early trading.
The silence from studios suggests an industry still trying to parse whether Trump’s threat is bluster or genuine policy. Either way, it signals fresh uncertainty for an entertainment business already grappling with streaming upheaval and rising costs.
LOS ANGELES: Acting has never been an easy profession, but in recent years, it has acquired a new existential anxiety. Artificial intelligence can now mimic faces, clone voices and, in theory at least, speak any language it is fed. The fear that actors may soon be replaced by algorithms no longer belongs exclusively to science fiction. And yet, despite the rise of digital inauthenticity, some performers remain stubbornly resistant to replacement. The reason is not celebrity, nor even talent. It is language.
On paper, this should not be a problem. AI can translate. It can imitate accents. It can string together grammatically correct sentences in dozens of languages. But acting, inconveniently, is not about grammatical correctness. It is about meaning, and meaning is where AI still falters.
Machine translation offers a cautionary tale. Google Translate, now powered by neural AI, has improved markedly since its debut in 2006. It can manage menus, emails and airport signage with impressive efficiency. What it struggles with, however, are the moments that matter most: idioms, metaphors, irony, and cultural shorthand. Ask it to translate a joke, a threat disguised as politeness, or a line heavy with emotional subtext, and it begins to unravel. Acting lives precisely in those gaps.
This matters because film language is rarely literal. Scripts, particularly in independent cinema, rely on figurative speech and symbolism to convey what characters cannot say outright. Pedro Almodóvar’s Volver is a useful example. The film’s recurring use of red operates on multiple levels: grief, desire, repression, liberation, and memory. These meanings are inseparable from the Spanish cultural context and emotional cadence. A translation may convey the words, but not the weight they carry. An AI-generated performance might replicate the sound, but not the sense.
This is where multilingual actors gain their edge. Performers such as Penélope Cruz and Sofía Vergara do not simply switch between languages; they move between cultural logics. Their fluency allows them to inhabit characters without flattening them for international consumption. Language, for them, is not an accessory but a structuring force.
Beyond European cinema, this becomes even more pronounced. Languages such as Hindi, Arabic and Mandarin are spoken by hundreds of millions of people and underpin vast cinematic traditions. As global audiences grow more interconnected, the demand for authenticity increases rather than diminishes. Viewers can tell when a performance has been filtered through approximation. Subtle errors, misplaced emphasis, and an unnatural rhythm break the illusion.
There is also a practical dimension. Multilingualism expands opportunity. Sofía Vergara has spoken openly about how learning English enabled her to work beyond Colombia and access Hollywood roles. But this movement is not a one-way export of talent into English-speaking cinema. Multilingual actors carry stories, styles and sensibilities back with them, enriching multiple industries at once.
Cinema has always thrived on such hybridity. Denzel Washington’s performances, for instance, draw on the cultural realities of growing up African American in the United States, while also reflecting stylistic influences from classic Hollywood and Westerns. His work demonstrates how identity and influence intersect on screen. Multilingual actors extend this intersection further, embodying multiple cultural frameworks simultaneously.
At times, linguistic authenticity is not merely artistic but ethical. Films that confront historical trauma, such as Schindler’s List, rely on language to anchor their moral seriousness. When Jewish actors perform in German, the choice is not incidental. Language becomes a site of memory and confrontation. It is difficult to imagine an automated voice carrying that responsibility without hollowing it out.
This is why claims that AI heralds the death of language miss the point. Language is not just a delivery system for information. It is a repository of history, humour, power and pain. Fluency is not only about knowing what to say, but when to hesitate, when to understate, and when to let silence do the work. These are not technical problems waiting to be solved; they are human instincts shaped by lived experience.
AI may one day improve its grasp of metaphor and nuance. It may even learn to sound convincing. But acting is not about sounding convincing; it is about being convincing. Until algorithms can acquire memory, cultural inheritance and emotional intuition, multilingual actors will remain irreplaceable. AI may learn to speak. But it cannot yet learn to mean.
In an industry increasingly tempted by shortcuts, language remains stubbornly resistant to automation. And for actors who can move between worlds, linguistic, cultural, and emotional, that resistance is not a weakness, but a quiet, enduring advantage.
