mike davis - Libcom

SCRIPTING LAS VEGAS 19
are vital clues. Let us review the basics of architainment: first of all, eye
candy on the façades has replaced neon. There is more narrative architecture
on the Strip, an allegorical nod to pedestrian cities. The architectural
historian Alan Hess calls it “a radioactive Manhattan.” Very
systematically, the earlier logolike iconography of the Stardust, the
Dunes, and the Aladdin has been imploded. Today, their 1960s neon
modernism is practically gone, along with the seedy lounge acts, icy
showgirls, and gangsters behind the scenes. To counter the expansion
of gaming across the United States over the past twenty years, corporate
Las Vegas is now marketed as a resort destination. And like themed retail
outlets everywhere, Las Vegas resorts have to look both international
and baronial, linking tourism, retail sales, and cinema on a scale never
possible before. The new casino-hotels also elaborate on older designs
for casinos, especially the trope I call the “unfinishable object.” For
example, in 1993, I visited Luxor soon after it opened, and my son took
a photo of me in front of the Sphinx. When I leaned back, part of the
wall fell off in my hand. It was as light as meringue. Beneath the stucco
shell and the chicken wire—of the “first pyramid built in 2,600 years”—
the wall was made of styrofoam. Later that week, I was told that Luxor
had a shelf life of perhaps twenty years, and that it would have to change
drastically before it actually began to age. When I returned to see the
wall in 1998, it was gone, of course, replaced by more eye candy.
Never quite finishing a casino leaves patches like these zones of unknowing,
but why is this financially advantageous? In Reno, I interviewed
an architect working on the Eldorado, a simulation of the mining
industry—panning slot machines. The eye candy there is gargantuan,
with huge mining machines in the center and even an oversized replica
of Bernini’s Triton Fountain in a corner. By contrast, near the restaurants
at the Eldorado, I found a curious dichotomy, even for casino architecture.
A very expensive Victorian cherrywood saloon/tearoom was positioned
directly alongside one of the most primitive murals I have ever
seen. The architect told me that this is a common practice, called “junking
up,” leaving patches suggesting that the casino is not quite finished.
The management wants guests to assume that the odds are not finished
either.
Management studies the Eldorado in blocks of twenty to thirty feet
to see how the flow of traffic generates profits. In other words, the unfinishable
object serves several purposes at once. It inspires gambling,
and also the need to return months later to see what has been added.
But most of all, it is the only way to fine-tune profits inside a casino.