Legacy 50: People’s Artist Kim Cuong—A journey through life and the stage

At the age of nine, after the passing of her father, Mr Ngoc Cuong, she was enrolled at a distinguished convent school in Saigon. Her future seemed decided: to become a teacher, marry a civil servant, raise children, and enjoy a life of comfort.

But ten years on, just after completing her baccalaureate, Kim Cuong travelled to Chau Doc to visit her mother. It was then that conflict flared unexpectedly. The theatre troupe was left scrambling to shield its audience. In her school uniform, young Kim Cuong stepped into the spotlight. Her instinct for the stage—dormant for years—was suddenly, irreversibly awakened.

It was her first role as a grown woman—not for entertainment’s sake, but to offer a moment of calm amid the chaos. To help the audience forget, if only briefly. In that instant, she realised: the stage, too, can be a sanctuary. A way to serve, quietly but profoundly, with the gifts she possesses.

Raised in the spirit of Cai Luong theatre, Kim Cuong was guided by her mother, the late People’s Artist Bay Nam, and her aunt, the late artist Nam Phi. Yet she was never content to remain in their shadow. She grew into a playwright, film director, and storyteller in her own right—bearing forward the legacy of her elders, while cultivating a voice entirely her own.

Some choices in life respond to the rhythm of history. For Kim Cuong, one such moment came at the height of her fame. Two Asian Film Awards in Taiwan. A house waiting in France. Friends abroad, ready to welcome her. Her family had plenty of reasons to leave.

Read more: Legacy 50 – Five places to watch the parade in the heart of Saigon on April 30

But she once said, “Where I can contribute the most to life, that is where happiness is.” At a time of profound changes in the artistic world, Kim Cuong stood as both a pioneer in advancing spoken drama and a steadfast figure keeping the stage lights glowing. Even far from home, she could still move audiences—like a rare pearl of Asia. But only in Vietnam did each line, each character, feel like part of a shared memory woven from her country’s trials, its losses, and the separations it had endured.

Having studied in France, she returned with delicate refinements that reshaped how Vietnamese women were portrayed. No longer limited to concubines or princesses, she brought life to women who may have seemed ordinary—compassionate, full of warmth, and brave in quiet ways.

“You are so mean, you made us cry so much with La Sau Rieng.” It was a comment from a market vendor that touched her more than any ovation. Audiences didn’t just see Kim Cuong on stage—they saw Miss Dieu, poor and resilient; Ms Be selling balut eggs; Mrs Tu offering sweet soup. They remembered how they had wept—because someone like them had lived on stage.

In the hardest of years, she and her colleagues travelled to remote places—bringing the voice of theatre to those who needed it most. Some evenings, their audience was made up of wounded soldiers. On other nights, the silence behind the curtain carried the weight of grief. She performed not only for the living, but in memory of those who had gone.

To remain was to preserve that bond. Not just between artist and audience, but between child and homeland, between one generation and the next. Because, as she once said, “If the voice of the national stage is lost, the voice of the Vietnamese soul will also be lost.”

Read more: Legacy 50 – Strolling through ‘Little Paris’ and the memories of Saigon residents

After stepping away from the stage, she chose a quieter path—without footlights or curtain calls—but one that became her life’s most meaningful role: to support, to bring together, to walk alongside pain with grace.

Kim Cuong has devoted six decades to charitable work, through the country’s many chapters. After reunification, she helped nearly 3,000 disabled individuals learn trades, supported surgeries for Agent Orange victims, stood by families during the Can Tho Bridge tragedy, and even helped organise weddings for couples without means.

In 2014, she founded the Artist Tri Am programme to bring warmth and care to elderly and solitary colleagues during Tet—a quiet, heartfelt gesture among those who had given so much to the arts of their homeland. During the COVID-19 pandemic, she raised hundreds of millions of VND to support struggling senior artists, and later launched Loving Heart, an initiative to care for orphaned children until they reach adulthood. When the chance arose, she partnered with the Ho Chi Minh City Heart Institute to provide free heart screenings for hundreds of artists and behind-the-scenes theatre workers.

Though she has left the stage behind, she holds a treasure more enduring than applause—trust. She never amassed great wealth, but the faith others place in her has become a quiet currency. Doctors now instinctively reach out to ask if she needs help, because that trust has become second nature.

Her art has always been a space for honesty, where something of the artist must always be real. Whether speaking into a microphone, standing under the lights, or working silently in the background, each moment was an offering to earn belief. The belief that what unfolded before the audience wasn’t merely a performance, but a fragment of life, shared with sincerity.

And when asked about the innovations of young Vietnamese artists today, she answers with modesty: “Every artistic experiment is a test. Its success or failure isn’t decided by the artist—but by the viewer.” Perhaps she remembers being that young artist once—someone who tried, stumbled, and was still received. Someone who was trusted, and found a place in the hearts of others.

In these April days, as the nation reflects on the past and reaches toward the future, the image of Kim Cuong brewing tea, sharing stories, and lighting incense in her modest home lingers as a tender, weighty strand of collective memory.

READ MORE

When cinema tells stories of ancestors: Vietnamese identity imprinted in collective memory

Legacy 50: Director Bui Thac Chuyen and ten years of chasing the dream of “Tunnels”

“Jade Girl” Deva Cassel: Cinema, heritage and a journey of identity