The Desert’s Latest Mirage Isn’t Worst Sight in Vegas

For two years on my semiannual visits to Las Vegas, I watched the Mirage Hotel take shape--the first major new hotel to be built there in 15 years. (I know this because I read the Mirage press release.) I was especially fascinated with the idea of a volcano in the front yard of the hotel, next to the Las Vegas Strip. In an area known for its exquisitely bad taste--Caesars Palace, next door, is a clear winner here--it seemed that we might have a new champion.

Well, the Mirage opened last November, and even though I’m a powerful columnist for a major newspaper, I wasn’t invited to the opening. So ever since November, I’ve been hearing from Orange County friends about the wonders of the new Mirage.

I had to go, and, finally, early this week, I made it--accompanied by my wife and two close friends (62-year-old kids). We started seeking a reservation in January and couldn’t get two consecutive nights until early April. Then it was Monday and Tuesday. I don’t know if this is because the Mirage is the current hot ticket or because the whole country has turned toward Sodom and Gomorrah and decided to blow the mortgage money in Vegas. Maybe a little of each.

As an intrepid journalist and observer, I checked out very carefully the attractions for which the Mirage is most frequently noted. Following is a report to guide those of you eyeing the mortgage money.

The volcano was a disappointment. I’m not sure what I expected, but this wasn’t it. No lava. No virgins sacrificed nightly. Mostly a bunch of people tangling traffic on the Strip or hanging over a railing in front of the hotel gawking.

What happens, see, is there is this big waterfall, and every few minutes, a lot of fire shoots out the top and spews down around the base of the waterfall. I was fascinated that the palm trees atop the waterfall never seem to get scorched. It isn’t the sort of thing you go back to see again. I mean, if you’ve seen one volcano, you’ve seen ‘em all.

Siegfried and Roy--the headliners in the Mirage showroom--have become very rich and famous in Las Vegas over the past two decades doing “illusions,” which is a high-toned word for magic. Their specialty is making large live animals--and spectators’ bankrolls--disappear (the price of admission was higher than the most expensive Broadway show I’ve ever attended).

The magic--which is both stunning and mystifying--is immersed and almost lost in heavy mist, glitter, high-tech and rock music during the first half of the show. As one whose tastes run to Penn and Teller, I kept wishing Siegfried and Roy would do a card trick or pull a rabbit--instead of a tiger--out of a hat.

But then they got down to serious magic, and some of the tricks were breathtaking--especially the shrinking of a girl in a box which was wheeled to the edge of the audience so we could see her compressed head and feet quite clearly--or thought we could. They also made an elephant disappear, but not before he left a nervous imprint on two sections of the stage and a smattering of audience members who were in the power seats--which I figured served them right.

Actually, it’s a hell of a show, and the way it is run improves on the usual Las Vegas norm of one-upmanship and bribery. The Mirage audience buys its tickets ahead of time and is assigned a specific seat location on the ticket. (The couple across from us at Siegfried and Roy said that they had seen “Jubilee” at Bally’s the night before and that seating depended entirely on the amount of the bribe offered the head seating honcho.) There also aren’t people queuing up through the Mirage casino at show time.

One thing that hasn’t been improved is the design of the showroom, which stands tables end-to-end just the way they did it when Las Vegas shows were served up with dinner. As a result, only the two people on the rail can see, while the rest of us behind them dislocate our necks trying to get a glimpse of the stage. This show should be played in a theater, not a nightclub, and the two requisite drinks that are reduced to melted ice a few minutes into the performance hardly justify all the stiff necks.

The Animal Grotto is where the tigers live when they aren’t disappearing. It is just off the Mirage lobby and is behind glass, huge, and virginal white. It looks more like Antarctica than India, where I thought tigers that aren’t in the disappearing business live. I dropped by to observe them several times and found them a somnolent crew, forever sacked out on a shelf at one end of the grotto.

A few other general observations. The help is much more pleasant and cheerful than I’ve found elsewhere in Las Vegas because, one of them told me, “we’re better paid and better treated.” As a result, the service is very good. The normal Las Vegas architectural excesses--like those abysmal statues at Caesars Place (I’m not sure whether the missing apostrophe is out of ignorance or design)--are much less evident at the Mirage and tend to be more pleasant, like the pots of orchids near the entrance.

The Sports Book is jock heaven. I once sat there entranced and watched three horse races and three baseball games simultaneously. One of my favorite spots was a rope-encased shrine for two $500 slot machines, with a bewildering notation on the front that says, simply and poignantly: “insert coin here.” It somehow catches the flavor of Las Vegas precisely.

So self-contained is the Mirage that I wandered off the grounds only a few times--and found Las Vegas to be its usual lovable self. Japanese tourists on the Strip taking pictures of other Japanese tourists taking pictures. Traffic bent on self-destruction. Moving sidewalks that don’t move. The victory glaze over the eyes of the winners and the despair in the eyes of the losers. The sidewalk arguments, mostly between couples.

On the way out of town, we drove past the nearly completed Excalibur Hotel. It looks like a movie back lot set for “Camelot,” is reportedly going to be the largest hotel in Las Vegas, and appears to be a much more viable candidate for the bad taste award than the Mirage--even with its volcano--ever was. There seems no limit to the people who will pour into Las Vegas and fill every new hostelry--rather like a new freeway that fills up instantly with traffic. When they dig up our civilization a few millennia hence, Las Vegas may offer the best insight of all into the culture that brought our civilization down--and to which I contribute with only minimal shame.

Coming home, we made the mistake of stopping at Whiskey Pete’s, next to the California state line. We should have eaten lunch at Baker, instead. While we waited to be served, a lady blackjack dealer in jeans and a calico shirt relieved me of $100 in swift, deft strokes. And as we pulled into our driveway at home, a young lady selling Girl Scout cookies happened to hit our front door. I couldn’t handle the thought of buying a box of cookies when I had just dropped $100 at Whiskey Pete’s, and I think I snarled at her. She retreated quickly. Such is the legacy of Las Vegas.

I don’t need to go back for a while. You see one white tiger. . . .