The glorious task of shooting a war film was entrusted to the Moscow Film Studio and assigned to the esteemed Soviet director Stanislav Rostotsky. As the master behind The Dawns Here Are Quiet, Rostotsky was a natural choice for such a monumental project, and Yanayev himself took the time to meet with him.
At first, Rostotsky harbored little interest in Yanayev's instructions. To him, a filmmaker's soul was tethered to creative freedom; making politically driven propaganda films felt like shackling his art. When they first met, Rostotsky was polite, but distant—an unspoken signal that he preferred to avoid entanglement with government officials.
Yet Yanayev was undeterred. He understood well the temperament of artists who often clashed with the establishment—just like Parajanov and Tarkovsky, whose talents had been stifled or forced into exile. Parajanov had spent fifteen years in prison for his "negative thoughts," and Tarkovsky had been blacklisted, forced to release his masterpieces abroad.
That was why Yanayev regarded Rostotsky as a treasure, a man worth courting patiently.
"This is the movie script we have prepared for you, Comrade Rostotsky," Yanayev said, handing over a thick manuscript.
Rostotsky took it without reading and set it aside with a faint, arrogant flick. But Yanayev did not take offense. He knew Rostotsky was a man willing to risk everything. If the Soviet Union rejected him, the West would undoubtedly embrace him as a cinematic god. But despite his doubts, Rostotsky's heart belonged to the land that raised him.
"You don't have to decide now whether to accept this task," Yanayev said smoothly. "We have plenty of time."
With a polite smile, Yanayev took his leave, accompanied only by KGB security agents, blending into the shadows so few recognized the General Secretary himself.
Surkov had complained to Yanayev about Rostotsky's arrogance and the widespread reluctance of talented artists to cooperate with the authorities. Yanayev knew that politicians must extend genuine warmth and patience to win over such strong-willed individuals.
A few days later, Yanayev was surprised by a call from Rostotsky. The director's voice was hesitant, betraying excitement. He wanted to meet with the scriptwriter of the movie.
"I am the scriptwriter of these movies," Yanayev replied.
When they met again, Rostotsky was no longer stern and aloof. Instead, his expression was one of rare kinship and urgency. He asked Yanayev if he had studied screenwriting.
Yanayev smiled wryly. "I graduated from Gorky Agricultural College. Screenwriting was never my field. I provided the ideas; others wrote the scripts."
"But these stories… they are already thrilling," Rostotsky said earnestly. Over decades, he had directed few masterpieces, but the scripts Yanayev brought were gold—rich with potential. "If I bring these to life on the big screen, they will surely become classics."
Yanayev breathed a quiet sigh of relief. After all, he had incorporated the essence of classic Hollywood war films, how could the scripts be anything but worthy?
"Compared to this," Rostotsky said, "the previous scripts given to me by the Propaganda Department were garbage—political correctness over artistry."
Rostotsky felt as if he had discovered a treasure. He urged the Moscow Film Studio to begin filming immediately.
Yanayev responded gravely, "As long as you find the scripts worthy, our mission is to bring such wonderful works to the people."
He emphasized the need for artistic freedom. "Provided certain political boundaries are respected, the government will not interfere with your creative process. Whether realism or modernism, the Soviet Union must be a garden where artistic flowers bloom freely."
"We oppose anarchism's chaos," Yanayev added, "but that does not mean opposing freedom in filmmaking. On the contrary, we should support and encourage creativity. A movie is not unworthy just because it challenges government views. Any high-pressure tactics against the arts are wrong."
His words echoed the reforms of Andropov's era, who, in 1983, began loosening the Soviet political system. As the old regime creaked under pressure, relaxing political controls allowed masterpieces by film masters like Rostotsky, Tarkovsky, and others to reappear on Soviet screens.
"Yes, General Secretary, you are absolutely right," Rostotsky nodded, "Art cannot thrive under pressure and control—it only breeds resistance and ruins creativity."
Yanayev smiled, pleased to see him align with his thinking. "Regarding costumes, props, and funding, the government will fully support whatever you need. Your task, Comrade Rostotsky, is to bring these scripts to life on screen. I trust your abilities, so I will entrust these scripts to you. You don't need to make many—just one excellent film a year will suffice."
"I'd be honored to do that, General Secretary Yanayev," Rostotsky said, visibly excited.
Yanayev had successfully resolved Rostotsky's biggest concern. Even Surkov, the Minister of Propaganda, had been unable to sway the director, but Yanayev had done it with ease. Now, all that remained was to wait quietly for Rostotsky's masterpiece.
Surkov, puzzled, approached Yanayev later. "Comrade General Secretary, I don't understand—how did you manage to solve a problem that even I could not?"
Yanayev chuckled softly. "Everyone wants their work to be recognized. These artists are no different. When we provided a script that closely reflected their ideas and values, they couldn't help but be inspired."
Surkov frowned. "I'm also curious why you personally involve yourself in such details. Surely, as General Secretary, you should focus on larger issues. Matters like this seem... trivial and beneath your station."
Yanayev's face turned serious. "Comrade Surkov, that is precisely where you are mistaken. Serving the people is not an empty slogan—it is embodied in concrete actions and details. Why should I, the General Secretary, refrain from handling small matters within my power? If you remain aloof and condescending, disconnected from the people's needs, then you are no better than a corrupt bureaucrat."
He leaned forward, voice low but firm. "'Everything for the people' is not an empty ideal. It means loyalty, dedication, and service. If those privileged bureaucrats don't embrace this spirit, then tell me—how can our nation avoid decline?"