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· February 17, 2008 9:58 PM by
Colleen Shirazi
· February 18, 2008 1:02 PM by
Dain
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Posted by Dain, Friday, February 15, 2008 5:15 AM (Eastern)
Elizabeth Taylor in Hollywood state in Cleopatra.
Guerlain stands, like all true icons, all alone. There are other houses of great rank and precedence, that bear on the history of perfumery as substantively, but Guerlain rears before them all—so very classical, so very French, reeking of good taste. "You smell of perfume," says my mother accusingly, "it's so strong." Yes, indeed. Imagine you are a diplomat from some backwater country, some bishopric of those German states perhaps, and you walk into the court of the Sun King at Versailles, in all its baroque glory. You are entirely out of your depth. At this point, you have two options. Cower, simper, flirt, and take upon yourself the affectations of the sophisticated. Or, roll your eyes, "Only the French could pull of that degree of vulgarity and get away with it."
A perfume with the incredible ego of an excessively wealthy aristocrat. There is no doubting its status as a masterpiece, and as such requires no apology nor approbation, but even the very best reflect the tastes of their time, and Shalimar is no exception. Its very smell is a grand production. Though the story may be set in the Orient, it is entirely a display of French taste in the grandest style. A lemony blast and the sharper bergamot open the show, before the curtain rises on an intricately carved vanilla accord, who is undoubtedly the hero of this piece, with tonka bean his good squire, who pair off in most pleasing symmetry with jasmine and rose as lady love and lady-in-waiting, while benign, mature iris chaperons the antics of the young with comically senile inattention. For darkness and complexity, incensey opopanax surfaces as the leering, mustached villain, the usurper (probably a bastard, to boot), who lusts after the chaste and virtuous lady love—it is he who carries the show, and indeed, Shalimar is not vanilla pale but midnight musky and deeply sensuous, folded into powdery sugar. Mistaken identities, soliloquies, deus ex machina, hearts broken and mended, and to draw this otiose confection short, everyone lives happily ever after.
I'll admit I do not like Shalimar (just as I do not like the ridiculously tasteless baroque plays my review is modeled after), though I have finally learned to respect it. To me it is gross and vulgar, the kind of perfume that drives by in a showy coupe with the speakers turned aggressively loud. Scent is by nature a bid for attention, but I find it appalling to smell something so greedy for it, and yet the extreme sweetness seems to cloak its intent. Nevertheless, I must draw a very important divide between cheap and sloppy vulgarity, and the well executed kind, which is extremely luxurious, and Shalimar is nothing but well executed. Subdued good taste, it is not. Shalimar's sillage hamstrings passersby and thus makes certain of the kneeling bow.
Labels: beauty notes, guerlain, perfume reviews
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February 17, 2008 9:58 PM,
I haven't smelled Shalimar in a while, what I remember is it was one of those scents I tried to love. I think because of the swank name...Shalimar.
To be fair, there were a lot of scents I tried to make work on me...there were fewer choices in those days. I like how it is now.
February 18, 2008 1:02 PM,
Yeah, that pretty much sums up my experience. I tried to love it. It is indeed so swank, you think you really ought to. Meh. Not all Guerlains are vulgar, though I find a lot of them are. Chanels, too.
Oddly enough, it smells great on my brother. Really great. He's not very sweet himself... so it seems to work. On a woman, the perfume just tries too hard, and you find yourself doing the same.
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