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Like Joan Crawford about to throw a major wobbly, this is all caked make-up (plenty of lippy, please) and fruity alcohol at the beginning. Its audacity in telling the consumer ‘You will like me’ is total but quite right; it makes me chuckle at the absurdity of wearing something like this, yet had me in its dishevelled embrace from the off.
The overall lowish volume is probably a result of balancing the two main actors, patchouli, which tends to holler, and iris, which prefers to whisper. But they are contained successfully, casting a range of powdery, dusky, earthy, doughy tones at each other. The grounding notes of vanilla and leather in the base are similarly subdued giving a feeling of warmth and sensuality without being overbearing, like lovers touching skin on skin while drowsing together. So far, so disarming.
Great for about four hours, after which this is mainly rubbery and faintly sweet.
(I have seen this compared to Annick Goutal’s Mon Parfum Cheri par Camille. Important points of difference are: Cheri is much heavier, more formal, stately and dark as a blackout; its patchouli is much denser, earthy and vegetal. I love it, but have to find occasions to wear it; Moulin Rouge on the other hand requires little preparation – just wear it and laugh.)
26 December, 2012