Oleg Yankovsky through the eyes of Alexander Zbruev: a man of mystery

There are people whom friends have known for decades and still cannot say they have figured them out completely. Oleg Yankovsky, judging by Alexander Zbruev's memories, was precisely such a person. He could laugh right alongside others, travel halfway across the country with companions, perform with them twice a day, and share common troubles. And at the same time, he left an invisible boundary around himself that almost no one was ever allowed to cross.

The Man Who Left the Door Ajar — But Didn't Invite You In

Zbruev recalled a rather curious detail: among his theater acquaintances, he knew no one who had ever been to Yankovsky's home. Oleg could easily drop a casual: "Drop by." But it sounded in such a way that his interlocutor somehow immediately understood — the invitation was not to be taken literally.

A strange thing. Formally, the man is open, affable, hiding nothing from you. Yet getting closer still proves impossible.

Perhaps it was precisely this distance that created that very mystery of Yankovsky that Zbruev spoke of. It was neither coldness nor arrogance — at least, that is not what the memoir implies. Rather, it was the ability to keep some inner space exclusively for oneself.

At the same time, Yankovsky was clearly not a loner. He grew so close with Zbruev and Alexander Abdulov that the actors traveled together across the vast country with creative meetings. The geography turned out to be such that today it is easier to picture it on a map than to list it aloud: Vorkuta, Magadan, Vladivostok, Kamchatka, Kushka, Alma-Ata.

Three Artists, Airplanes, Trains, and Performance Fees

Behind the glossy legend of famous actors, the rather prosaic side of the profession usually gets lost. People traveled thousands of kilometers not just for applause. They were earning a living.

Sometimes the schedule was almost mocking: a performance in the morning, a performance in the evening, then again in the morning and again in the evening. Zbruev recalled that they were terribly exhausted, but at the same time mentally calculated their future earnings. There is something very earthy about this. On stage — artists loved by the entire country. Behind the scenes — three exhausted men trying to figure out how much they will ultimately be paid.

One day it turned out there was nothing to calculate.

Before their departure, a man came to them and brought plane tickets. Yankovsky immediately asked about the money. The answer was brief: the man had been instructed to hand over only the tickets, and he knew nothing about fees.

And that was it. Several days of hard work had effectively dissolved into thin air.

On another trip, fate seemed to decide to play a reverse joke. This time the actors were paid their money, but the transportation let them down. They were promised a military plane since there was no regular civilian airport nearby. There was no plane to be found.

The Train That Had to Be Dug Out of the Snow

They had to travel by train. But even here everything went off-plan.

When the artists reached the station, the rails were barely visible. Snow lay all around, and only part of the train cars protruded from the drifts. The train had to be cleared out. Naturally, it departed with a huge delay.

For an ordinary passenger, this would have meant a ruined day. For Yankovsky, Zbruev, and Abdulov, the situation was worse: the next day in Moscow there was a play scheduled in which all three were supposed to perform.

They realized they might not make it in time.

Zbruev particularly remembered Yankovsky. All the way, the latter sat with a face turned gray from anxiety. Not because of lost money, not because of the cold, not because of the exhausting journey. He was terrified of missing the performance.

Right before reaching Moscow, an almost comical and at the same time very human scene took place. Three famous artists grabbed their bags and walked through the carriages toward the front of the train. They wanted to win at least a few minutes upon arrival.

A few minutes changed nothing.

They were late. In the play, they were replaced.

For Yankovsky, Being Replaced Was Almost Unbearable

Zbruev himself notes: being replaced is unpleasant for any artist. But Yankovsky took it especially hard.

And here another trait of his reveals itself. Perhaps not the most convenient one for a flattering commemorative portrait — but a living one nonetheless.

Yankovsky loved success.

He did not treat it with demonstrative indifference, nor did he portray a person who completely doesn't care whether he is recognized on the street or not. He liked being noticeable. He liked looking good. He liked having his photo taken by the best masters. According to Zbruev, after moving to Moscow, Yankovsky willingly put on a handsome suit and wanted to be photographed exclusively by a top-tier portraitist.

You can call this vanity. And, no doubt, a share of vanity was indeed present here. But such a story cannot be explained by vanity alone.

If a person simply needs applause, they get upset by the lack of applause. Yankovsky, however, turned gray-faced on the train simply because the performance would take place without him.

That is something entirely different.

It wasn't enough for him to be famous. He wanted to be needed right where he was supposed to be. On stage. In the role. On that exact evening.

"Being First" — Dangerous and Powerful Fuel

In Zbruev's memoir, something close to Yankovsky's formula rings out: first in everything, and even better — irreplaceable.

From the outside, such drive is easy to condemn. Why should a man who has already achieved recognition prove something all over again? Why can't he just relax?

Yet, this seems to be one of the answers to why certain artists become truly great. They are very bad at relaxing where someone else would have already told themselves, "Well, that's enough."

This quality comes with a price. A person takes defeats, replacements, unsuccessful roles, and someone else's success much more painfully. Perhaps even a simple delay turns into an internal catastrophe for them.

At the same time, that exact tension pushes him back onto the stage to demand more of himself.

The Yankovsky Paradox

Out of several episodes recounted by Zbruev, a rather contradictory person emerges.

Closed off — and constantly surrounded by people.

Keeping friends at a distance — and capable of crisscrossing the country with them for weeks.

Famous — but counting money after yet another performance.

Loving a fine suit and a good photograph — and simultaneously tormented by the fear of being late for an ordinary working performance.

Perhaps it is precisely these contradictions that make a human portrait genuine. Otherwise, instead of a person, you get a monument: a few proper epithets, a bronze gaze fixed somewhere into the distance, and neatly engraved dates.

Yet Yankovsky in Zbruev's story is by no means bronze.

He gets angry when he is cheated out of money. He gets tired. He rushes. He worries. He wants to look magnificent. He loves recognition. He does not want to be replaced. And with all that, he leaves a small closed circle around his own life, into which even close colleagues do not dare to step without an invitation. A real invitation.

A Mystery That Perhaps Doesn't Need to Be Solved

Sometimes it seems to us that friendship with a person automatically grants the right to know them completely. That closeness is obligated to erase all secrets.

Yet, it seems Yankovsky was wired differently.

You can freeze together at a northern station. You can count performance fees, argue over a plane, walk through the entire train carrying bags, and endure a shared defeat. You can be friends for years.

And still, some door will remain locked.

Zbruev does not try to pick that lock, even in his memoirs. And, perhaps thanks to this, the narrative sounds especially warm. Before us is not an attempt to explain Yankovsky with a single neat phrase, but an admission: I stood beside this man, I saw a great deal — but I never fully understood him.

Perhaps that is precisely what respect for another person's individuality looks like.

Leaving a person to keep their secret.