Penhaligon’s Halfeti Leather, Serge Lutens Chypre Rouge, Carine Roitfeld 7 Lovers and other reviews – Skin Time January 2021

Most of the perfumes I smell don’t end up being reviewed here. Main reason: there are far too many of them for me to able to write a review of each one. Almost equally important reason: the majority of them don’t have anything especially noteworthy to say. However, taken collectively, they do sometimes cause snatches of disjointed thoughts to flash in my mind. Some of these link up to each other, form a chain and perhaps turn into observations on the current state of the art form or on prevailing trends or, as is more usual, on the way in which the industry perceives and tries to attract potential customers.

Carine Roitfeld 7 Lovers

It’s the latter that was uppermost on my mind as I worked my way through the debut collection from Carine Roitfeld. I confess that, prior to receiving the sample set (which came in one of the Perfume Society’s discovery boxes) I had no idea who Ms Roitfeld was. I am now aware that, partly because of her role as editor of French Vogue, she is considered to be one of the most influential fashion-and-taste gurus of recent years. So this only served to increase my dismay as I acquainted myself with her scented work, because I couldn’t understand why someone of her stature should choose to enter the fragrance world with a marketing concept I can’t help see as anything other than crass and outdated.

7 Lovers is the umbrella label for the perfumes. Each one bears the name of a different man. And yes, you guessed it, as though channeled through the sensibility of some painful, pre-PC, Carry On cringe-fest, each one is supposed to represent an ‘unforgettable lover in an iconic city’ to paraphrase the text on the brand’s website. If the gender tables had been turned here (ie if a man had decided to release olfactory representations of his most memorable female lovers) I suspect there would have been an outcry. So it is disappointing, to say the least, that Roitfeld has chosen to use her fragrances to take us back into the dark ages of inter-gender relationships.

I hoped that, maybe, the scents themselves would be interesting enough to rise above this small-minded, reductive nonsense, but no. They’re mostly predictable nothings. Sebastian (who, in case you’re interested, does his bedding in Buenos Aires) leers with metallic thinness. Lawrence (linked with Dubai, for some reason best known to Roitfeld) makes a less-than-feeble attempt to play the oud card. And Vladimir’s pseudo-herbal heart is dull and pointless. Indeed, as a whole, these fragrances make me wonder if they’re less about love than about some twisted form of inverse-misogynistic revenge. It’s hard to see most of the ‘men’ portrayed here as anything other than unpleasant, standoffish and arrogant.

In the interests of fairness, I must point out that three of the blokes present a more likeable demeanour. George displays some charm with its intense galbanum-green opening, in the manner of Frederic Malle French Lover (although he’s meant to be based in London; go figure). Kar Wai’s tea-like start leads into a pleasant woody heart, reminiscent of the ghost of some early 90s Guerlain masculine. And Orson’s smoothly balsamic drydown is as easy to wear as smoothly balsamic drydowns tend to be. But overall, the collection leaves a sour smell in my nose, as well as the inclination to cast it aside. And have as little as possible to do with it.  

Parle Moi De Parfum Mile High
and Serge Lutens Chypre Rouge

Although the name Mile High** could be considered as dubious as the concept behind the Roitfeld scents, at least it can also be read as humorous, so I don’t intend to get myself in a twist about it. But I wish I could be equally forgiving of the perfume. I think I can see what Michel Almairac may have been trying to do here. His recent Haute Provence was an attempt to reinterpret lavender by placing it alongside a hefty dose of ozonic notes, and Mile High appears to have an equally experimental mission: namely, to bring out the fruitier, sharper, more acrid facets of immortelle. Unfortunately for me, this entails pairing it with pineapple. I’ve yet to be convinced that this particular fruit deserves a prominent place in a perfumer’s palette (I find its ‘grapefruit-on-a-bender’, sweet+sulphur personality stomach-churning) and this composition is unlikely to change my mind. To be sure, there is a ‘masculine’ woody accord in the base, but in my view, it fails to combat the overwhelming sourness of the pineapple.

Incidentally, the mention of immortelle reminds me that a few Serge Lutens bell jars are now available at Harrods, including Chypre Rouge*. I can see why some declare this piece of work to be a sticky mess, but I find there’s enough in its honeyed, spicy, tobacco construction to sustain my interest, especially on paper, where it all holds together more successfully than on skin.

Penhaligon’s Halfeti Leather
and Castile

Going back to sour smells for a moment, I was disgruntled but not surprised to discover that Penhaligon’s Halfeti Leather** is essentially Halfeti with a dryer aspect created through the inclusion of a tannery note. Sadly, Halfeti seems to have become The Signature Of Penhaligon’s, in the sense that it’s the odour most often wafting out of their shops. I have always found it unpalatable, chiefly because of its over-reliance on synthetic sandalwoods, any mention of which always reminds me of Jean-Claude Ellena telling me he refused to use them “because they ALL stink!”. Halfeti Leather doesn’t make them any easier to wear.

What a contrast with Castile**, which I enjoyed rediscovering not too long ago. I’d say it’s still in pretty decent shape, using a well-judged petitgrain note (suitably woody-silvery) to balance the neroli and orange blossom. Yes, it’s a relatively straightforward cologne, very much in the vein of Acqua Di Parma’s Colonia, but straightforward colognes can be a joy when they’re convincing and don’t try too hard. How much more delightful would it be to walk past a branch of Penhaligon’s if this was the smell that greeted you rather than the man-spreading Halfeti. 

Bogue Lita

Man-spreading. I wonder if that’s a term that could be applied to the new Bogue Lita*, created by Antonio Gardoni in collaboration with The Kooks’ Luke Pritchard and songwriter Ellie Rose. But I think that would be a touch uncharitable on my part. It’s certainly a roomy piece of work, conveying bombast and bluster in even the tiniest of sprays. Personally, I found it too loud to enjoy fully, but I’m sure its largeness is its point. From the start, it attacks the wearer with a veritable bonfire of patchouli, tobacco and vetiver. How much else you detect in there depends on how close you dare to get (the official list of notes mentions jasmine, gardenia, grapefruit, cypress, coriander and more), but I suspect this will appeal mostly to those who are drawn to brutalist, block-like compositions.

It would be unfair to compare Lita with Etat Libre D’Orange Rien, because that’s one of the most extraordinary BIG perfumes ever made and few wannabes can match its genius. But it’s difficult not to be reminded of it here, and of how superbly the ‘more is more’ style can work when it’s executed with greater finesse. Indeed, Gardoni himself handled it more effectively in Bogue.

Kierin Rose Ink

Any finally, the idea of finesse brings us to Kierin Rose Ink, the first of the brand’s scents not to have been composed by Mathieu Nardin; here, the author is Jerome Epinette. It ticks all the right jammy-ambery-saffrony rose boxes, but perhaps doesn’t bring anything markedly novel to the garden. Still, it’s a solid addition to a brand whose ethos – and dedication to accessibility – I continue to admire. Founder Mona Maine De Biran seems to know exactly where she’s taking her work… and I can’t imagine her ever naming her perfumes after fictional-or-real people she’s slept with. So yes: let’s be grateful for small mercies!

Persolaise

* sample provided by the brand
** sample obtained by me

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