Chapter Sixty-Six: The Spring Festival Gala

For celebrities across the various branches of the Republic’s entertainment industry, the Spring Festival Gala has always been the stage they most yearn to step onto.

Though in recent years, with the rise of the internet, public tastes have grown increasingly discerning, and the Gala has found itself in an awkward position, somewhat like a chicken rib—lacking flavor, yet too precious to discard.

Nevertheless, the Gala remains an indispensable feast for Chinese New Year celebrations. You might play cards or mahjong, raise a glass in lively conversation, but no matter what you’re doing, when that hour arrives, someone inevitably turns on the television, and nearly every channel broadcasts the same show. The Spring Festival Gala has become a tradition, a habit ingrained in the Chinese way of welcoming the new year. Whether you watch it or not, the Gala is always there, steadfast and unchanging.

Where there is an audience, there are interests. Every star, big or small, hopes for a moment in the spotlight at the Gala, for there is no other program in the world with such a vast viewership.

Though the public may complain about the declining quality of the Gala, television stations have no choice but to carry on: first, because it has become a political mandate; second, because the economic stakes are enormous. In these times, no one turns their back on money.

No matter how harshly the public criticizes the Gala, major businesses still invest real gold and silver, and they have ample reasons to do so.

With so many voices, pleasing everyone is nearly impossible—creating a Gala that escapes criticism is a Herculean task.

One might think, given how difficult it is to produce the Gala, that the chief director would be hard to find. Yet, in reality, this role is coveted beyond measure within the industry. Whoever lands it will find countless businesses clamoring for their attention, and stars of every caliber vying for favor. If one has a thick skin and the resolve to endure the inevitable backlash, the job is actually not so hard to manage. After all, no star would refuse such a stage, and cobbling together an ensemble cast is enough to ensure the Gala runs smoothly.

On the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month, this year’s Spring Festival Gala entered its final full-dress rehearsal. Every process followed the exact order of the actual broadcast, and the audience seats were filled—internal staff and connections, brought in to test the effect of the show. Yet their reactions would change nothing; at this point, the entire program was set.

This year’s chief director, Hua Lianfeng, was only thirty-nine—a notably young age for such a position. But who could blame him, when he had an uncle who was a vice minister and an aunt who served as deputy director of the central station?

A chief director, backed by a team of a dozen segment directors, made this year’s Gala run surprisingly smoothly. Hua Lianfeng’s workload was light—mostly making rounds, visiting esteemed artists, offering care to young performers from neighboring countries. Though not a mascot in name, he certainly played the part.

During the final rehearsal, Hua Lianfeng, dressed formally, sat in the front row, operating his walkie-talkie with practiced seriousness, as if offering guidance. Yet those beside him knew well—he was engrossed in conversation with a Korean pop singer.

With the Republic’s growing strength in recent years, the world had become polarized: Western powers, led by Europe and North America, dominated the Atlantic and the east Pacific; the Republic and its emerging allies held sway over the Indian and west Pacific Oceans.

The Republic, with its formidable political, military, and cultural influence, had revived the glory of the Han and Tang dynasties. Neighboring countries, once Western sycophants, now served the Republic with trembling devotion—especially Korea and Japan.

For artists from nearby nations, breaking into the Republic’s entertainment scene was an honor. Each year, businesses and stars from these countries fought fiercely for a spot in the Gala—be it a commercial slot or a performance.

Just as Hua Lianfeng was planning to pursue an artistic exchange with the Korean girl group member after the rehearsal, his phone rang.

“Xiaofeng, there’s something you need to arrange quickly. Here’s a song—get it on the program as soon as possible.”

“Uncle, this isn’t easy. We’re at the final rehearsal now. Adding a new act would disrupt the entire rhythm.”

Hua Lianfeng hadn’t expected his uncle to call personally, especially about a song. He couldn’t fathom the reason, but the reality was clear: inserting a five-minute performance into a four-hour show already set in stone would disturb the entire running order. He might not be hands-on, but he knew this would offend many, perhaps everyone involved.

“Xiaofeng, I’m not asking you to squeeze the song in mid-program. Make it the finale—that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

“What? The finale slot belongs to that veteran performer. You know it’s tradition—their song has closed the Gala for years. It’s not easy to change.”

“Don’t worry about that. Someone will handle the veteran. Just say it’s a directive from the top if there’s any pushback. Understood?”

Hearing this, Hua Lianfeng immediately grasped the situation. Clearly, the performer slated for this song carried immense weight—even his uncle couldn’t refuse.

“Uncle, could you be a bit more specific? I need to prepare, otherwise things could get messy.”

Hua Lianfeng’s success in managing the Gala came not only from his connections, but from his savvy: leave technical matters to professionals and focus on relationships.

“That’s all you need to know. The performer is of founding father stature. Be careful, accommodate any requests they make.”

“Understood. We’re expecting royalty. All right, I’ll take care of it. You take care as well.”

After the call, Hua Lianfeng sprang into action. He summoned all segment directors, explained the situation plainly. Even if objections arose, everyone knew they’d have to swallow them—the performer’s background was simply too formidable.

After collaborating on the song, Zhang Lao Pao and Ma Pingdong each took it to their respective mentors. Though the song had a rock flavor, its content and melody resonated deeply with the elderly veterans who had endured war. Upon hearing it, both immediately approved.

With two founding figures capable of calling the nation’s top leader signing off, the song’s place in the Gala was assured—nothing could overturn the decision.