My Mykolaichuk

Ivanko was born on June 15, 1941, a week before the war started. Little wonder Mykolaichuk believed that he had been born twice. As Nazi bombs came showering down a week later, not everyone survived. This may have taken away the bulk of his vital energy – why else would he leave this life so soon?

I also recalled for some reason that it is written on Oleksandr Dovzhenko’s tombstone in Moscow: “Died on Sunday.” Would he rise from the dead? And Ivan was born on a Sunday – as if Dovzhenko had been reincarnated in him. He seems to have been aware of this and, therefore, used to create legends and tales. He told me, and not only me, that, when still a boy, he had wanted to see the great artist. At last he made up his mind and went to Kyiv. He arrived on a Monday. He came into the studio and saw a black-framed sign: Dovzhenko died yesterday in Moscow. This was obviously a hoax, a fantasy, for a 15-year-old country boy was very unlikely to have ever heard of Dovzhenko’s muse, who was in disgrace and out of focus. However, such stories were quite common, as he traced his family line to the 1920s, to Dovzhenko, Demutsky, Buchma, Kavaleridze… And it is common knowledge that the freedom of art and esthetics was their god.

I love no other generation in Ukrainian (and not only) art and literature so much as the one called shistdesiatnyky (the 1960s dissidents). Now they have suddenly began to put on bleak clothes in order to fly, one by one, like cranes, to warmer and wealthier lands. We recently buried Les Serdiuk, an actor by God’s grace; Moscow parted with Andrei Voznesensky whose I Am Goya! had once colored and captured the essence of an epoch. Serdiuk’s funeral gathered Yurii and Mykhailo Illienko (immediately bringing back Drach’s lines “How the two Maiborodas buried Malyshko, how the earth’s black book was being closed…”), Bohdan Stupka, Larysa Kadochnykova, Ivan Drach, Viktor Hres, Oleksandr Muratov… They are so different from one another that sometimes you may think somebody drove a wedge between them. And words broke loose, jostling each other: don’t hurry, don’t fly after Les to other worlds! Yet, thank God, they are not impatient. They have many unimplemented plans still. The rest is nothing but metaphysics. The very idea of an art generation is metaphysics. But there is some logic in it.

Les Serdiuk, who had so oft deified and admired Mykolaichuk, found a home at the Ivan Franko Theater in his last two years. He was so glad to have parted with the doldrums of cinema, and having to think about his daily bread. Cinema is, especially now, not so much creative as industrial, factory-style, work.

You are tied up to the conveyer belt which is out of touch with such thing as freedom. And if you are not tied up, you feel more torments.

And now Mykolaichuk came into my mind. More than once did he say that he wanted to leave cinema – just a couple of films more and that’s that, and then on to the greener pastures of free writing. I found it hard to believe, for some reason. “But you will be saying this again in ten years, ‘just one or two films more…’ Cinema is an uphill job, but it is so sweet at the same time,” I said to him. But that was in the early 1980s, when freedom in cinema had finally been suppressed. Yet at that very time Mykolaichuk created his Babylon XX, which was a call for freedom following the humiliating 1970s. If you want to be free, just be free. Besides, disobedience and individualism runs in the blood of Ukrainians. “Babylon, my brother, Babylon!” says film every now and then.

Indeed, how can such different people gather in the same commune? Yet nothing changes, just a more alarming and even tragic refrain: how can Ukrainians unite in Ukraine? Especially with Russian imperialism is increasingly discernible in the Pechersk Hills: here is the unifying platform: “without Banderites,” “without the Ukrainian patois…” The latter is, of course, good for “home consumption,” against the backdrop of dumplings and shalwar-clad dancers. But not for cinema! Instead of Babylon, there must be “one and undivided” unity, in which Ukraine may be allowed to have not only shalwar but also an anthem and a flag.

And what would Mykolaichuk have said to all this? Maybe, he would have recalled that when Boris Pavlionok, deputy chairman of the USSR State Committee for Cinema, came to know the title of the film (the aforesaid Babylon XX) he forbade bringing the movie to Moscow? Or the New Year’s “greeting card,” with a picture of a coffin, stating that the film director and actor will soon meet his death – only because he presented the USSR as Babylon? And, indeed, death already lay in waiting…

Mykolaichuk died at the age of 46. It is difficult to imagine him at 69. When I last saw him, about six months before he died, he told me to call him. As I looked at him inquiringly, he hastened to say emphatically: “The phone number, the address, and the wife are the same…” Now, too, Marichka’s phone number is perhaps the only one I do not have to look for.

Everything is the same. But it is unlikely that Mykolaichuk would be making movies now. And where could he do this? In all probability, he would be writing novels or novellas, like Hryhir Tiutiunnyk, his favorite author. He would be generating ideas – a thing that we are in bad need of.

He might be also laughing, as his Cossack Vasyl did in The Lost Letter at the czarina and czarism. Free and unrestrained laughter. Vasyl Tsvirkunov, general manager of the Dovzhenko Studio in 1972, told me, as the film was being finished, that when the movie was previewed at the USSR Cinema Committee, the bureaucrats were at first giggling – until Mykolaichuk’s Vasyl rode into the czarina’s chambers… This effectively stifled the giggles, and it was decided not to show the film in Ukraine. This was quite logical: it was allowed to criticize imperial bosses at those times, especially “with retroactive effect,” but to let “khokholy” laugh… Never!

You can only imagine how Mykolaichuk would have played and retold the story of the president of Ukraine himself visiting his native village of Chortoryia in Bukovyna. This occurred four years ago, to mark the 65th anniversary. This threw the local bosses in a panic: the road to the manor-cum-museum was terrible. They began to hastily macadamize and asphalt it. A lick and a promise, you know… As work was drawing to an end, there was a phone call: Mr. Yushchenko has some delays, he cannot come. People were not surprised: statesmen cannot find time for everybody. So there was immediately a new order: remove the equipment and halt work. Ordinary people will do with a hundred or so meters of the unfinished road. You see, presidents behave differently – their asses love a soft ride, without shaking or bouncing, while we will do without asphalt one way or another.

A comedy pure and simple! Ten days ago I also had a jolty car ride on those unfinished meters, listening to the story of an abortive visit and unfinished road construction. Mykolaichuk’s smile was hanging in the sunny sky and in the tightly-closed lips of his elder sister Frozyna who looks after the manor-cum- museum. It is here, in this house, that Ivan was raised. The family having been large, it is hard to imagine how so many kids could fit there. But now the house is empty – everybody has gone somewhere. Only his brother Yurii stayed behind to live in a new house amidst the ancestral courtyard. The old one was eventually torn down – sad news for Mykolaichuk. Then they regained their senses and rebuilt it – exactly like the one that existed in the artist’s childhood. The only trouble is the roof thatching – it is supposed to be exposed to a tar-laden smoke, as it used to be. But where can one get this kind of smoke now? Or a weight for the old clock next to the photo of young Mykolaichuk… Or the haymakers to mow a hill over. People are no longer willing to work, Frozyna says in anguish.

The jubilee will come a year later. This is an opportunity to do something to honor the actor’s and director’s memory – first of all, here, in Chortoryia, Chernivtsi oblast. A small house is good, but it could be the basis for a large museum complex. One more thing: we should revive making films that will immortalize Ivan. Then he will emerge again – a living human, not a museum piece!

COMMENTARIES

Bohdan STUPKA, artistic director, Ivan Franko Theater:

“I served in the army in 1964-65 at the Song and Dance Ensemble of the Carpathian Military District. We performed in Chernivtsi, and my friend Ferenc (born in Transcarpathia) and I saw the premiere of Denysenko’s film Dream. The picture made an indelible impression on me, especially Mykolaichuk who played the role of the young Bard. And I began to brag that I know Ivan (although I had only seen him in films). As we once walked along a downtown street, we saw Mykolaichuk standing and talking to a girl. Ferenc says to me: ‘Here is your acquaintance, go and say hello to him.’ I had nothing to do but come up to the popular actor. I thanked him for the film and came back, and my friend said smiling: ‘You’ve come back too fast, and the two of you have been talking as if you were strangers.’ This is how I met Mykolaichuk.

“The second time we saw each other was after the premiere of the film Annychka (directed by Borys Ilchenko) in Lviv. The film crew, including Mykolaichuk, Stepankov, Havryliuk, and others, arrived, and we, actors of the Maria Zankovetska Theater, came to congratulate them on an interesting movie. Then, after some time, I was summoned to the Kyiv Dovzhenko Film Studios for screen tests. The director Yurii Illienko was launching the film White Bird with Black Mark (script by Ivan Mykolaichuk) and offered me a small role as the black-eyebrowed boy. I liked the script very much, especially the figure of Orest Zvonar, but I knew that Mykolaichuk himself planned to play this part. The screen tests were held in a huge pavilion with scenery: I was standing on a raft and speaking out a short monologue. As I had no experience of filming, I began to raise my voice in order to be heard in the pavilion’s farthest nook. Then I suddenly saw Kost Stepankov (he was in Leonid Osyka’s movie Zakhar Berkut at the adjacent pavilion) who stood under a spotlight and began to tell me not to shout but speak quietly, as if I were at my home kitchen. Illienko told him to go out and stop interfering with me. So Stepankov walked to the other side and told me again to speak more quietly. The director became enraged and drove him out, but I heeded the advice of my senior colleague and when the filming session was over, Illienko said he liked it. This is how I found myself in this film.

“But, as time goes by, nobody invited me to be filmed, and I thought I don’t suit them. OK, I’ll go on playing on stage, and cinema is not my line. Then the assistant director Illia Miliutenko suddenly called and said it was decided that I will play the main role of Orest Zvonar, not some small part! This even scared me: will I be able to manage? When I arrived at the set, I was said that Mykolaichuk was not allowed to play the role of a Ukrainian insurgent, the enemy of Soviet power. The decision was made at the CPSU Central Committee on the grounds that the actor who recently played Taras Shevchenko in the film Dream must not play a villain. So they resolved that Stupka, an actor with black piercing eyes, will play this role, while Mykolaichuk will be cast as the Red Army soldier Petro Zvonar. This means I grabbed Ivan’s most coveted role. You know, actors really agonize over such things, and some can even become lifelong enemies. But Mykolaichuk dealt with this courageously. He never bore a grudge against me – on the contrary, he took care of and helped me, as the role of Orest was my debut in cinema. This is how Ivan and I became friends. He never missed a day of filming and analyzed what I did well and what not. Like Nostradamus, he prophesied that this movie would catapult me to cinematic fame and bring me success and popularity. I listened and did not believe it, but Ivan turned out to be a good prophet, and cinema became my second love, after theater…

“Mykolaichuk was open to his friends and helped many with concrete deeds, not just words. I remember the premiere of the film Black Bird… in Moscow, when the audience gave the movie a rapturous welcome, we heard so many good and warm words from our Russian colleagues, and Ivan was patiently mingling with his admirers. I learned very much from him, not only in the professional but also in the everyday-life aspects.

“God lavishly vested Ivan with talent. He was an excellent actor (34 roles in cinema), wrote nine interesting screenplays, and he was also a wonderful film director, although he made only two movies – Babylon XX and Such a Late and Warm Autumn. He had a lot of fantastic ideas, and shared them with everybody, speaking about future films. The projects he conceived were actually finished screenplays. If Ivan had lived longer, he would have gifted audiences with still more interesting things, as an actor, director and scriptwriter. He grew as a master from film to film. He was a colorful, sincere and truthful person, and a hospitable host. He almost never missed a theatrical premiere. Once, on a set in Lviv, Ivan saw Stolen Happiness (a popular production by Serhii Danchenko, based on Ivan Franko’s drama). At a certain moment, I come onto the proscenium and recited the monologue of Mykola Zadorozhny. Analyzing this, Mykolaichuk told me after the performance: ‘It is a close-up – more of a cinema thing.’ Incidentally, he wanted to make the film Stolen Happiness but something stood in his way and the dream remained unfulfilled.

“The news of Ivan’s death reached Stepankov and me in Odesa. It was a shock. We knew he was ill, but we did not believe that such a strong personality could not overcome the malady. We stopped filming and rushed to the airport. Stepankov somehow managed to make a deal, and we left on the very first plane. We arrived in Kyiv late at night and paid tribute to him. I could not believe that death had wrested Mykolaichuk from earthly existence… Then Nina Matviienko told me that she and Valentyna Kovalska, her colleague from the Golden Springs trio, had come to Mykolaichuk’s house a few days before Ivan died. [His wife] Marichka was out somewhere, and they had to ring the doorbell for a long time before Ivan could rise from his bed. They said: ‘We have come to see you,’ and Ivan replied: ‘There is nothing to look at’ and did not open the door. Then the girls began to sing. They wailed on one side of the door and Mykolaichuk wept on the other. The ailment had been gradually sucking out all his vital sap, and the once handsome man was thin and haggard.

“The death of Ivan Mykolaichuk was an irretrievable loss for Ukrainian cinema, and I felt orphaned because my cinema guru was gone.”

Larysa KADOCHNYKOVA, actress, Lesia Ukrainka Theater:

“Looking back at those times, I am sadly aware that a pleiad of wonderful actors is gone: Mykolaichuk, Brondukov, Stepankov, Hrynko. They are Ukraine’s pride. I think that if they were alive today, our cinema would not be in so a sorry plight as it is now…

“I met Ivan Mykolaichuk during screen tests for the film Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (he and I played the roles of Ivan and Marichka, respectively). Ivan made a stunning impression on me – first by his appearance: eyes, manner of speaking and moving, timbre of voice... He was a true positive character who attracted people. Even then he displayed the signs of a star and an idol. I would call him ‘Ukrainian Gerard Philippe.’ It became clear during the filming that nobody could have played the role of Ivan better than Mykolaichuk, for he was so organic, convincing, and very natural. What may have helped him was the fact that the shooting was done in western Ukraine, his native land. You know, when I hear that ‘everything should be fine in a person,’ I picture nobody else but Mykolaichuk. Yet he was not always easy to get along with, he could not stand back-slapping attitudes. He may have opened up to his friends (actors Brondukov, Stepankov, Havryliuk, director Osyka), but he kept himself at bay from all the others. There was a very good relationship between Ivan and me, but we were comrades and colleagues, not friends. When the film Shadows…was released, it ushered in a period of success and recognition. Mykolaichuk and I traveled around the world, presenting the picture because the then Soviet officials did not allow the film director Sergei Paradzhanov and the director of photography Yurii Illienko to go abroad. I can remember our journey to the international film festival in Mar del Plata, Argentina, in 1965. How rapturous the critics and audiences were about the movie! Ivan and I were the festival’s heroes, but he was devoid of any ‘star euphoria.’ No special attire (Mykolaichuk wore a lounge suit and a sweater), but each of his appearances captured the media’s attention, and audiences adored him. Incidentally, Shadows… won a host of Soviet and foreign awards and is among the world’s top twenty films. Success did not turn Ivan’s head though. He was a very ingenious individual with a philosophical mindset. He was raised in an ordinary large rural family, but it seemed to me he had a noble streak, for he was the true nugget of a well-mannered, wise and sagacious person. Audiences loved him, as did film directors who cast him in various movies. Ivan saw very soon that he should not confine himself to acting – he displayed the gift of a scriptwriter and director. I think if Mykolaichuk were living today, he would not let Ukrainian cinema break down and die. He was a polymath and a patriot of his homeland, he tenderly loved his mother and his wife Marichka (although there were also some difficult moments in their family life)… Ivan was very genuine! It is really a pity that he left us so early. As an actor and director, he might have caused the renaissance of Ukrainian cinema. Mykolaichuk was a master and a creator, and his demise greatly impoverished Ukrainian art.”