Moscow Bids Farewell to Oleg Yankovsky

John Freedman / MT Mourners lined up a block away from the Lenkom Theater for the opportunity to view Oleg Yankovsky's body in state Friday. More photos of the farewell

Oleg Yankovsky died at the age of 65 on Wednesday, May 20, in the wee hours of the morning. On Friday it seemed that half of Moscow’s residents left their homes and workplaces to come to the Lenkom Theater, where Yankovsky had worked since 1973, to say farewell.

Yankovsky was one of the finest, most beloved actors in Russia in the last half-century. In film and on stage he created more memorable roles than perhaps any of his peers. But it wasn’t quantity that made Yankovsky a star — it was quality. The two films he made with Andrei Tarkovsky — “The Mirror” and “Nostalgia” — would alone have made him a historic figure. And yet those films only scratch the surface of his extraordinary work.

Yankovsky was an intellectual, an aristocrat and a simple man all in one. It made him one of the great cultural icons of the Soviet Union in the 1970s and 1980s. He was loved, admired, adored. Through it all Yankovsky invariably maintained a noble distance from stardom, from the press and from his public, although he was anything but a recluse. He was active in public affairs and did not shirk the limelight. But he never sought it out, and he clearly believed that silence is every bit as eloquent as an interview full of words.  

On Friday, Muscovites came in the thousands to pay their last respects to the actor who has been part of their lives for over 40 years. People lined up for blocks and waited hours on Malaya Dmitrovka Ulitsa to view Yankovsky’s body as it lay in state on the stage of the Lenkom Theater. The street was shut down from Pushkin Square halfway to the Garden Ring. Outside the theater crowds swelled as the time approached when the actor’s casket would be carried out of the theater and placed in the hearse that would convey it to Novodevichy cemetery for burial.

I was struck by the faces of those who came to stand and wait. They were both young and old. There were just as many men as there were women. The sounds we heard as we stood across from the theater were the shuffling of thousands of feet and the slamming of car doors as automobiles whisked government officials and movie stars up to the stage door entrance. I rarely heard anyone speak, even in a whisper.

More than anything, the atmosphere outside the theater struck me as a moment of collective solitude. The actor’s fans had come together in enormous numbers, but they were lost in their own private thoughts. Their expressions were somber; their faces shone with dignity.

Everything was done strictly according to custom, with even the weather playing its part: A downpour, a reminder of tears, hit less than half an hour before Yankovsky’s body was to be borne to the hearse. Those who had umbrellas quickly raised them; some squeezed under nearby awnings. Those who lacked either option stood out the rain stoically, as though it had no power to affect them.

The doors of the theater finally opened shortly before 3:30 p.m., and, soon after, the procession of dignitaries led by an actor carrying Yankovsky’s portrait made its way toward the hearse. As is the custom at actors’ funerals, the entire crowd burst into applause, punctuating their cheers with lusty shouts of “bravo!”

This is a bracing, even amazing, ritual, one that is shot through with defiance and a touch of anger — a bit of a fist aimed at heaven. It is also an act that is enveloped in sorrow and resignation. This standing ovation is one no one will ever respond to — no bows; no curtain calls; no smiles. This is applause the crowd offers up out of generosity, love and gratitude, knowing it will receive nothing in return.

On Friday, the ovation for Oleg Yankovsky lasted over 10 minutes. It died down only after the hearse was well on its way to the cemetery.

Click the link above for a small gallery of photos of the farewell.