I finally made it to Vegas' indomitable crown jewel. At first, I hated it. And then...
The Sphere of Influence, a colossal theater in Las Vegas, is a marvel of technology. With a 160,000-square-foot wraparound LED screen, it's a spectacle that threatens to melt the skin off your bones. But my gripes are more philosophical. When the Sphere opened in 2023 with a U2 residency, I watched as Bono, a man who has thought deeply about being a compelling rock musician, was dwarfed by a hypersaturated vista of mountains, deserts, and sunlight. It was a depressing sight, with 20,000 people singing along while staring at the largest television ever built. Is live music meant to be humbled by machinery? Or is it more rewarding to connect with the performers? I believe the latter.
Despite my reservations, the Sphere has been a runaway success. Artists like The Backstreet Boys and The Eagles have used the theater's stature to distract from their age. Phish, No Doubt, and Kenny Chesney are also set to perform there. But on quieter nights, the Sphere transforms into a prohibitively expensive movie theater. Starting in August, anyone in Las Vegas could buy tickets to see The Wizard of Oz in a retrofitted version, with AI-powered enhancements. The pitch? Expanding the horizons of Oz with AI, CGI, and haptic 4D gimmicks. While it felt like a hard bargain, I had no choice but to visit, given my work on Las Vegas' decline.
As I entered the Sphere, I was overwhelmed by the concave interior and the harsh corner of the upper balcony. The vast LED canvas engulfed my peripheral vision. The Sphere's interior is a screen-filled maze, with screens on the walls, ceilings, and floor. The theater was surprisingly busy, with a woman cosplaying as Dorothy and a couple of Elphabas. The show began with a digital curtain, revealing an arid, black-and-white Midwestern sky. The Sphere's remastering of The Wizard of Oz was a defilement to some film nerds, with significant liberties taken. The runtime was curtailed, and gaps were filled with gratuitous gaudiness, like the tornado sequence, which was terrifying and memorable.
The Sphere's approach to remastering was impressive but at a cost. The film's slow moments were banished, and the dialogue was streamlined to make space for set pieces. The Wicked Witch's domain looked like Mordor, and the emerald citadels glistened majestically. The producers used unsettling AI gesticulations to reanimate Judy Garland's skeleton. I left the Sphere confused and dismayed, questioning the cost and purpose of such an experience.
Despite my reservations, the Sphere left me with an enduring body high. I'd love to see Empire Strikes Back in the Sphere, but I'm not sure it would be superior. The theater might cut out the Dagobah scenes and shorten monologues, resulting in a hollow and contrived product. However, the idea of Cloud City rendered in 16K does get my blood pumping. The Sphere asserts that we demand pleasure, and it might be right.
The film industry is in a moment of rapid consolidation, with Netflix acquiring Warner Bros. Las Vegas has cracked the code of getting people to pay for a ticket and watch a story unfold. The Sphere presents a 90-year-old film with light and sound cranked up to unimaginable degrees, dilating our pupils and beating our brains into docile submission. It's a testament to the power of spectacle in filmmaking.
