In a moment that lit up the New York Film Festival this week, acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi bowed before Martin Scorsese, calling the legendary American director “the current God of cinema.” The gesture, captured during their onstage conversation at Lincoln Center, quickly went viral—marking one of the most memorable encounters between two of the world’s most revered living directors.

The remark came as Panahi introduced Scorsese before a packed audience gathered for a discussion following the screening of his new film It Was Just an Accident. The exchange was part of the festival’s In Conversation series, designed to pair filmmakers whose work has reshaped the art form.

A Meeting of Icons

The room fell silent as Panahi, who had spent years under state-imposed restrictions in Iran, stood to address Scorsese. “You are,” he said slowly, through a translator, “the current God of cinema.” Then, with a quiet smile, he bowed deeply. Scorsese, visibly moved, rose from his chair and returned the gesture with a hand to his heart. The audience erupted in applause that lasted nearly a minute.

For Panahi, the moment was as symbolic as it was personal. Banned from filmmaking and travel for much of the past decade, he became an emblem of artistic defiance. His work—shot clandestinely, often smuggled out of Iran on flash drives hidden in cakes or shipped overseas under pseudonyms—has earned global acclaim and multiple awards at Cannes, Venice, and Berlin.

Scorsese, by contrast, has spent the last half-century defining modern American cinema. From Taxi Driver and Goodfellas to Silence and Killers of the Flower Moon, his career embodies both creative mastery and an unrelenting commitment to film as an art form. To be hailed by a filmmaker like Panahi, whose courage has come at great personal risk, is no small tribute.

A Bridge Between Worlds

Their meeting represented more than artistic admiration—it was a dialogue between two cinematic worlds. Panahi spoke about the isolation of making films under surveillance, describing how “even silence can be a form of protest.” Scorsese responded with empathy, praising Panahi’s “moral vision and devotion to truth,” calling him “one of cinema’s purest souls.”

For many in attendance, the exchange underscored the universal language of film. “You could feel that both men understood each other perfectly,” said one audience member. “They didn’t need to share a country or religion or even a language. They spoke cinema.”

Reverence and Resistance

Panahi’s bow carried particular resonance. In Iranian culture, bowing can signify respect, gratitude, or humility—but in this context, it also symbolized something larger: the recognition of a kindred spirit who has used his freedom to defend the very idea of cinema.

Over the years, Scorsese has become one of the art form’s staunchest defenders, campaigning for film preservation through The Film Foundation and championing global voices often overlooked by Hollywood. He has long praised Iranian cinema—especially Panahi and the late Abbas Kiarostami—for their humanism and lyrical realism.

In a short address following the exchange, Scorsese returned the compliment. “Jafar has risked everything for his art,” he said. “That’s what cinema is about—not comfort, not commerce, but courage.”

A Moment Beyond Politics

The New York Film Festival audience responded with standing ovations for both filmmakers. Critics attending the event called it a “rare display of reverence between equals.” On social media, clips of the exchange quickly circulated, with fans describing the scene as “the most powerful love letter to cinema in years.”

While Panahi’s phrase—“the current God of cinema”—sparked debate among cinephiles, most agreed that the statement was less about hierarchy and more about acknowledgment. In elevating Scorsese, Panahi seemed to be affirming that cinema still has its prophets—artists who remind the world why stories matter.

Cinema as Faith

In an era when global filmmaking faces censorship, streaming pressures, and shrinking theatrical audiences, the encounter felt almost spiritual. The bow and the words themselves transformed into a ritual—one director offering homage to another, both aware of the fragility and enduring power of their craft.

Panahi’s gesture, in its simplicity, encapsulated a larger truth: that for many filmmakers, cinema is not merely an industry but a form of belief. And on that stage in New York, it felt as if two high priests of that faith had met—one hardened by resistance, the other sustained by legacy.

As the lights dimmed and the conversation ended, Scorsese turned to Panahi and said softly, “The gods of cinema are all of us who keep it alive.”

The audience rose once more—not just for two filmmakers, but for the art form that unites them.