Two thousand seven hundred lavish bedrooms, 22 restaurants, 45 spa-treatment rooms, three football pitches’ worth of casinos, a couple of shopping malls, stocking every designer brand imaginable, and Ferrari and Maserati dealerships. More than £1.4 billion of investment poured into 58 storeys of curving, light-catching, bronze-tinted glass, with the boss’s signature in 20ft-high neon on the top flight. Oh, and an artificial mountain.
Steve Wynn, the undoubted king of Las Vegas, may be a master of many things, but understatement is clearly not his strength. Even in the global capital of gratuitousness, where Wynn made his fortune creating masterpieces of excess such as the Bellagio and the Mirage, they’ve never seen anything quite like the brand-new Wynn Las Vegas resort.
Which is the point — it’s the world hotel opening of 2005, but nobody’s been allowed to see it. The cloak of secrecy surrounding this week’s launch has made the conclave of the cardinals look like the Big Brother auditions. No travel journalists were allowed a preview of the resort before its charity launch party on Thursday — except, of course, the chancer who broke into the place last week.
“I’M BRIAN SCHOFIELD from The Sunday Times, and I’ve got a 10.30 appointment.” The security guard looked at me as if I was lying through my exhaust pipe. Perceptive bloke. Where exactly was my appointment? “Er, the administrative centre?” Now he looked like I was beyond saving — with more than 8,000 staff, it’s a fair bet the Wynn has more “administrative centres” than the UN.
“Park across the street and we’ll see if you can get a visitor’s pass.”
Ignoring the subtext — that I’d be getting a visitor’s pass to the sole of his shoe if I kept this nonsense up — I parked and marched back, the Nevada sun glinting off the swooshing curves of the Wynn tower and firing up the sweat glands beneath my dark-wool, take-me-seriously suit. As I approached his booth once more, it occurred to me that I hadn’t the faintest clue what to say next — at which point a 54-seater coach pulled up, blocking the gatekeeper’s view, and I popped through an open archway marked “Staff Entrance.” Now there was no option but to plunge on, expecting a barked demand to “Freeze!” at any moment, until I reached the next checkpoint.
“Can I see your security tag?”
“Erm, I don’t have one.”
And ... cue intervention of guardian angel ...
“In that case, Sir, you need a visitor’s pass. Just sign here.”
He who dares, Rodney. He who dares.
As my breathing stabilised, The Sunday Times’s exclusive, self-guided pre-opening tour of the Wynn Las Vegas began.
Overall, the resort has an airy, glamorous look that you could call “oriental baroque”. There’s a sumptuous indoor garden, and the standard-issue cavernous casino is flanked by huge private rooms for poker, baccarat and other games.
Indeed, privacy is a defining issue here — while most other Vegas hotels sell “luxury for the masses”, this is more about getting away from them. This is most evident in the decision to build a mountain — literally — between the resort and the rest of the famous Strip, meaning the centrepiece water fountain isn’t visible to ordinary, street-strolling tourists. The lovely pool areas are also hidden from view, and exclusivity is made explicit in the Country Club restaurant and grill. This is “luxury for the membership”.
That luxury extends to the countless shops, bars and rest-aurants along the hotel’s labyrinthine esplanades, all being preened to perfection as I strolled past. But the sales pitch is all about the rooms — so do they match the hype? Thank heavens for service elevators.
The rooms I trespassed were, quite simply, about as good as hotel rooms have a right to be. Epic views of the Strip from floor-to-ceiling windows, furnishings no mortal can afford, a Playboy-mansion colour scheme of stained wood, white walls and flashes of red, and all topped off with Mr Wynn’s trademark — well-chosen, well- displayed works of art. I nearly moved in.
All of which pointed to a wider significance, hinted at by the resort’s carefully dull name. As I scuttled out into the sunshine, it seemed clear this wasn’t just the launch of a new breed of Vegas hotels, but the birth of the queen bee of a global luxury brand. Wynn Macau, Wynn Singapore, Wynn Dubai, Wynn London? It makes perfect sense.
For now, though, there’s only one place that sets the new gold standard for resort hotels, and I can’t wait to stay there properly — provided the owner doesn’t arrange a private tour of Nevada State Prison first.
Rooms now available from £130 (00 1 702 770 7100, www.wynnlasvegas.com)
