AI-Generated Animation: Is it merely copying or plagiarism?

"YES, we found similarities in the content, however it is merely copying, not plagiarism," said the Head of Academic Integrity Unit at a top university in northern Malaysia when I reported my close and trusted friend for plagiarising my PhD methodology thesis.

That moment still stings. Not just because of the betrayal, but because of how the system so casually dismissed the weight of intellectual theft.

In fact, I am still ember by how quickly it was brushed aside. Apparently, as long as the structure was tweaked or a few words changed, it was not considered plagiarism. The essence, the original framework I had painstakingly built over years of research, was treated as fair game for copying. But is a reworded theft not still a theft?

This question is not limited to academia. It also echoes in the cultural world today, especially in the growing use of generative artificial intelligence in animation.

When Hayao Miyazaki, the legendary Japanese animator, was shown an AI-generated animation prototype with its eerie, disjointed movement of limbs, his reaction was sharp and visceral. He said, “I strongly feel that this is an insult to life itself.”

To some, this may sound overly sentimental. But to those of us who have spent years developing our craft, whether in research or art, his words ring true. What he saw was not just an awkward experiment. It was a hollow imitation of life, stripped of care, story or soul.

The Grey Area of Generative AI

AI-generated images and animations raise serious questions about authorship, creativity and ethical boundaries. Most AI models are trained on massive datasets collected from the internet including images and artworks created by people who were never asked for permission.

When an AI system generates an image that clearly resembles a Studio Ghibli scene or mimics the brushstrokes of a digital artist on ArtStation, is that a new creation? Or is it simply passing someone else’s expression through a mechanical filter?

Supporters of AI often say that this is no different from how human artists draw inspiration from one another. But there is an important difference. Human influence involves interpretation, transformationand intent. AI does not understand what it is doing. It does not feel joy, sadness, or wonder. It simply recombines data based on patterns.

Imagine a human artist looking at Van Gogh’s Starry Night and, feeling inspired, painting their own version of a night sky with a different meaning or mood. That is creativity.

Now imagine a photocopier rearranging the same stars and swirls in a slightly different order without knowing what they mean. That is what AI does. The form may change but the soul is missing.

Despite this, AI-generated works are being sold, exhibited and even entered into film festivals as original creations.

The Legal Landscape

Malaysia’s Copyright Act 1987 protects original works such as literature, music, art, film and sound recordings. It considers infringement to occur when someone uses these works without permission, especially for selling, hiring, or distributing unauthorised copies.

But the law does not protect "style."

To put it simply, copyright protects the specific expression of an idea, not the general way it looks or feels. It is like a recipe. You can’t copyright the idea of making fried rice, but you can protect your own unique version with specific ingredients and steps. Others can make their own fried rice, even in a similar style, as long as they don’t copy your exact recipe word for word.

The same applies to art. An artist can’t copyright the idea of drawing in a cartoon style or painting dreamy landscapes. But they can protect a specific artwork that combines those elements in a unique way.

So what happens when an AI is asked to generate an image in the "Ghibli style"? Is it just creating something inspired by that style, or is it following the original recipe so closely that it starts to taste exactly the same?

My legal knowledge understands that "style" is not protected by copyright. Still, Studio Ghibli’s distinct look is so recognisable that when it is reproduced, it becomes difficult to ignore where it came from. The legal line may be clear, but the ethical one is far more complicated.

What Systems Miss

In my own case, the university focused only on surface-level procedures. It ignored the intention behind the act, the betrayal of trust, and the damage done to my academic journey. In the same way, the tech world today seems comfortable ignoring nuance in favor of progress and efficiency.

But if we continue to blur the lines between influence, imitation and theft, what happens to the meaning of creativity? What happens to the value of research, of art, of human effort?

This issue resonates with the ongoing SAG-AFTRA protests, where actors, writers, and other creatives are fighting for their rights in an era of AI-generated content. One of their core concerns is the rise of AI in media and entertainment, where studios may use AI to replicate voices, likenesses, and even writing styles without compensating the creators who contributed to the original work.

The growing use of AI in film and television risks eroding the value of creative labor, reducing it to mere data to be harvested and reproduced without care for the creator’s intent.

As an academic and media scholar, I am not opposed to technology. I use it. I teach it. I study it. But I believe that powerful tools must come with thoughtful ethics. We cannot allow convenience to replace care. We need frameworks that protect creators, not just systems that reward speed.

Why Human Creation Still Matters

Miyazaki’s critique is not just about defending hand-drawn animation. It is about reminding us that creation is not only about results. It is also about process, emotion, and experience. Behind every frame, every brushstroke, and every idea is a person making choices, feeling things, and telling stories.

AI can replicate appearances, but it cannot feel or understand. And if we forget that, we risk turning the deeply human act of creation into just another function of automation.

Until we take these questions seriously, in law, in culture, and in education, we will continue to confuse copying with originality and overlook the real impact of creative theft. And perhaps, like me, many more will be left with the bitter feeling of having their work dismissed as nothing more than a "similarity."

Muhammad Naim Muhamad Ali, PhD, also known by the moniker Naim Leigh, is a Communication and Media Studies lecturer at the University of Wollongong Malaysia. The views expressed in this article are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of Sinar Daily.