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Kerry Packer comforts Gyngell's first wife, Anne Gyngell.
Photo by Robert Pearce
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He was the Pink Panther, the first face on Australian TV, the heartbeat of commercial television in this country for years.
Even though he wasn't there, even though St Andrew's Cathedral was filled with famous or familiar faces, the disembodied Bruce Gyngell still managed to be the most flamboyant character in the cathedral.
He was described as a man with time for everyone, a "carpet walker", and the best TV executive Australia has ever produced.
And television came out for him. Ray Martin gave a remembrance, Brian Henderson gave a Bible reading, Geoff Harvey played a fanfare composed for the occasion (and slipped in a few notes of the theme from the Pink Panther for the big cat who loved positive pink shirts).
Every TV network leader across the broadcast spectrum turned up for the memorial.
Celebrities and characters sat in every row, from Singo to Jana, from Alan Jones to Professor David Flint, and burly men, with names such as Beetson and Coote, who once put their heads in scrums for Australia.
The Packer clan was there early. And in full.
James Packer sat front and centre, next to his father, Kerry. And the big fella wore dark glasses. This was a hard and special day for the first family of Australian television.
Gyngell was more than blood and money to the Packers, which is why James's voice quavered again and again as he gave the first remembrance address.
"He was a huge part of my family for three generations ... Thank you for your integrity, thank you for companionship, thank you for unswerving loyalty," he said.
And yet Sir Frank Packer still sacked him.
James Packer told the story of how Sir Frank got into an argument over Barry Crocker's sideburns and the Sound Of Music and creative control, and how Gyngell had warned him: "When I hang up this phone, I no longer work for you."
The old patriarch did not relent, and Gyngell left to build a rival empire at Seven. "That proved to be a huge loss for Channel 9," James said.
But Gyngell would later work for his friend Kerry Packer, with resounding success, especially in Britain, where Margaret Thatcher, no shrinking violet, would describe him as "my favourite Australian".
Gyngell, who was made an Officer of the Order of Australia this year, died from cancer last month, aged 71.
His death came almost 44 years after his face appeared on Australian TV screens on September 16, 1956, and he introduced a medium that would transform this nation with the words: "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to television."
Yesterday it was cascades of lilies, angelic voices, a packed cathedral, applause, and a subdued big fella, alone outside the church and puffing on a consoling cigarette.
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