Cosmo: the morning after; “Sinatra” too sexy?

Although I’m still feeling somewhat the worse for wear from last night’s Cosmopolitan of Las Vegas opening-night bacchanalia, a quick observations are in order. Filled with people, Cosmo’s virtues are magnified, its vices minimized (with one glaring exception to which I’ll get). And, yes, it is a fun-inducing space. It might not propel travel to Vegas but it should achieve the popularity that eluded Encore and CityCenter. The crowd seemed exceptionally festive, genuinely having a good time rather than willing themselves to, as was the case at Aria‘s debut. As it happened, our route to Cosmo took us through Aria and there was more energy in Cosmo’s Bond bar alone than in all of CityCenter.

I’ve still not mastered the art of pacing oneself through these openings and was maxed out on food and drink by the time we got to the main restaurant level. They’re very big on “molecular gastronomy” there, a term we understood only because it had figured in a recent episode of Castle.

My wife and I enjoyed some 21-year-old scotch, courtesy of Chuck Monster, who was among the notables in attendance. Prof. David G. Schwartz was on hand, as were many of the usual media suspects and even an entourage-less Steve Wynn. Seeing the long queue of cars waiting … waiting … waiting to funnel into the porte cochere confirmed a warning that Wynn gave about the resort’s peculiar ingress/egress format. Whenever any event of consequence is held there, it’s going to be vehicular fustercluck. Cabbies reputedly avoided the new Aladdin like the plague because they had to enter it off Harmon Avenue (just like Cosmo) and descend into the bowels of the building to pick up and deposit passengers. We’ll see how the hack drivers take to the Strip’s newest design challenge.
Sex & Sinatra. Aside from an unfortunate decision to vulgarize some of the Chairman of the Board’s greatest hits, Twyla Tharp‘s Sinatra: Dance with Me is a fine artistic achievement. Sadly, people are already to be heard saying it’s “too good” for Las Vegas, as though we’re the lowest common denominator of American cities, capable of appreciating nothing more sophisticated than Criss Angel in Believe. The lithe elegance of Sinatra: Dance with Me shows that a celebrity tribute can be a work of art, not a bloated and money-grubbing grotesquerie like Viva Elvis.

For that matter, does MGM Resorts International really need to blow $350 million on a Michael Jackson tribute show by Cirque du Soleil when someone like Tharp could create something finer for a fraction of the cost? Don’t the consecutive box-office failures of Viva Elvis and Zaia suggest that Cirque has run its course? Besides, resident Monte Carlo headliners Jabbawockeez channel the spirit of Jacko in their moonwalking and fluid routines (or is it the blank white masks that make them seem Jacksonesque?), making me wonder if Cirque-does-Michael will be superfluous by the time it arrives.