Bellagio, itself a work of swank commercial art in the Northern Italian style, knows its financial priorities: its "gallery of fine art" holds a mere 28 masterpieces and is smaller than some of the hotel's suites. Anyway, the opening of Bellagio, like the November premiere at the Rio of "Treasures of Russia" (a display of artifacts from the summer homes of the Romanov tsars), is more than a lure to tourists inclined to visit Manhattan and Europe. This flirtation with high culture is the latest evidence of the town's almost religious devotion to the new. And a stern renunciation of the old.

In a few endearing ways, Vegas hews to tradition: in the bustier-and-mesh-stocking garb of the waitresses, in the strategic placing of the casino on the long walk from the front desk to the room elevators, above all in the showroom entertainment. Three basic formats have survived since the Rat Pack days. The Ziegfeld-style revue chugs along with Les Folies Bergere (which predates Cats but still has, shall we say, legs) and Jubilee (see the sinking of Titanic--better than the movie, and lots faster!). The headlining comics (George Carlin, Don Rickles) and singers (Diana Ross, Frankie Avalon) are mostly refugees from some '60s variety show. The magicians, like Lance Burton (whose rube charm oddly evokes both Clint Eastwood and Liberace) and the oily David Copperfield, are younger but their schtick is ageless. The glammiest illusionists, Siegfried and Roy, have been making tigers vanish in an orgasm of purple smoke for so long that they and their act are starting to look glazed.

If Siegfried and Roy were a hotel, they'd be history by now, because history has no place in a city that believes only in now. Consider that Vegas had a big hand in liberating late 20th century architecture from the slablike sameness of modernism. It restored the notion of a building as entertainment, as exclamation; it put the fun back in function. From the early hacienda hotels to Siegel's bolder Flamingo to the jutting lines of the Sands and the Dunes, Vegas could be a vibrant museum of eccentric architecture--if these hotels were still standing. They aren't. The town treats its landmark hotels like a doddering uncle who needs to be put away. Other cities raze old buildings grudgingly; Vegas does it with pride and pizazz, as a media event and a warning that it will not tolerate the shabby status quo. In 1993, Wynn was pleased to blast the venerable Dunes to smither-eens. On its gravesite Bellagio now stands.

Why would a visionary like Wynn want to build hotel rooms so attractive that visitors spend their time there, instead of their life savings at the $1,000 slots? For that matter, why would anyone want to stay in a hotel room, however suavely appointed, when there's a city out there that begs to be experienced with open eyes, mouth and pockets? One Vegas regular suggested that a lavish suite might be just the place to take an expensive call girl. We doubt that Wynn built Bellagio to make $500-a-night hookers feel more comfy. But the regular was on to something: the idea that, in Vegas, all contradictions can peacefully coexist. In this case, high art and high-priced sex.

Roller coasters, neon lights that flash and burn out, millions to be won or lost on a spin of the roulette wheel, billions spent on hotels destined for bankruptcy--these are no metaphors; these are monuments to manic-depression. And if gambling holds no thrill for you, if you don't care to pay for romance, you can still love Vegas. Love-hate it, that is. Where else can you ride out the millennium by being a minor character in the most thrilling novel never written? Nowhere but Vegas. You can bet on it.

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