For over 20 years, the program has been considered a familiar source of entertainment on television every Lunar New Year's Eve, where families often gather to await the New Year's Eve countdown. Undeniably, Táo Quân (the annual New Year's Eve comedy show) was once a rare phenomenon in Vietnamese television. For 22 years, the program created a familiar routine for many families as they sat in front of the TV screen, sharing in the anger and laughter of the artists.
Táo Quân is not just an entertainment program; it has become a collective memory, associated with the feeling of reunion and the transition from the old year to the new. When it's gone, it's inevitable that viewers will feel a sense of loss and emptiness. However, for those in the industry, this is an inevitable end, as in recent years the program has fallen into a rut, its comedic elements have become stale, and its scripts have repeated motifs. It's time to face the truth: a program, no matter how iconic it once was, will become a burden if it cannot reinvent itself.
In the arts, it's not an exaggeration to say that conservatism is "poison." Maintaining a team with established faces for over two decades has inadvertently stifled opportunities for new talents. We cannot demand a contemporary spirit from mindsets that have been ingrained for 20 years. This pause is not a loss, but a relief for those in the profession who are exhausted from the pressure of trying to surpass their own achievements, and a relief for the audience whose patience is wearing thin.
The void on New Year's Eve 2026 is a harsh but necessary test. Art needs "teardowns and rebuilding" to survive. If television doesn't dare to kill off an outdated icon, it will forever be stuck in its narrow "comfort zone." Stopping isn't the end, but rather a sensible decision to protect the value of a once-loved program and make way for new, sharper, and more contemporary values.
From that perspective, suspending the Táo Quân (Kitchen Gods) show can be seen as a necessary choice for both the producers and the audience. Stopping doesn't mean denying the value of the past. On the contrary, it's a way to preserve beautiful memories, preventing a once-beloved program from becoming a mere shadow of its former self. In that sense, the void left by Táo Quân is both a loss and an opportunity. Losing a familiar program, but opening up opportunities for new ideas on New Year's Eve.
What audiences are waiting for, besides a new form, is a new spirit, a new way of storytelling, and especially the ability to touch upon contemporary cultural values and emotions. Until we find individuals capable of revitalizing an already established icon, pausing to prepare for a different comeback, or for entirely new forms, is perhaps a wise and courageous choice.
The story of Táo Quân also raises a longer-term issue: the generational transition in cultural creation. When a program relies too heavily on a group of veteran artists, innovation becomes difficult. Young artists may not yet be mature enough, but if they are not given opportunities, they will remain on the sidelines. Closing a familiar program, in this case, can open up opportunities for new faces and new approaches, which, although initially imperfect, are full of potential.
Source: https://www.sggp.org.vn/khep-lai-de-mo-ra-co-hoi-moi-post832913.html
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