SERGE LUTENS AMBRE SULTAN: Serge Lutens strikes me as the perfumers equivalent of David Lynch — he works in a singular style that others strive to emulate, and his fragrances are often more satisfying when broken down into separate parts than they are when examined as a whole; another way he’s like David Lynch is that on the occasions when he gets it right, the pieces all work together like the gears in a perfect Swiss timing mechanism and you can’t help but stand back and marvel a bit when the clock strikes noon and the entire dance unfolds.
Ambre Sultan is one of the times where I believe that Lutens gets it right. It’s still a bit of a challenge, mind you; it starts off exceedingly dry and herbacious before moving into its sweetly earthen and woodsy glory several hours later, and for something labeled amber, that takes a bit of getting used to. Is it worth getting used to? Absolutely — but it requires time, effort and attention in a spray and go world, and I don’t always have the focus for a Picasso when I’m zipping through the grocery store, sorting the laundry and/or cleaning the car.
I picked up a sample of Ambre Sultan because I was casting about for a warm, attractive and comforting perfume to purchase as a gift for my sister’s upcoming birthday, and as much as I admire the obvious artistry behind Ambre Sultan, I had my doubts that a working mother with three teenage children and a husband who’s out of town on business a lot would find it much comfort to deal with such a convoluted plot in a bottle. It would be like settling the kids down for an evening of popcorn and Men In Black only to discover that some pot-smoking Blockbuster employee had misfiled a DVD of Blue Velvet in the package, instead. It can only end in tears.
So my take on Ambre Sultan is this: if you’re in the mood for a mind-spinner of an amber, one that’s singular, distinctive and flat-out artistic from front to back, then Serge Lutens has got your number; yet if you’re scouting for an amber that’s rich, sweet and undemanding of your attention, Ambre Sultan’s arid, splintery heart is most definitely not going to float your easy-to-love boat, because while the ending is certainly gorgeous (and I offer that as the understatement of the year), the journey to get there is fraught with challenge.
What did I wind up getting for my sister? Parfumerie General L’Oiseau de Nuit — it’s sultry, sweetly feminine and no-holds-barred charming, and THAT is what a frazzled mom needs when she reaches for a bottle of perfume to start her day.
***Note: if I could find a way to bottle Ambre Sultan’s smoky, woodsy drydown, while skipping everything that comes before it, I think I’d make a fortune.
AESOP MYSTRA: Yet one more reason to leave Luca Turin’s Perfumes: The Guide to gather dust on my bookshelf. He gave Mystra four stars, yet Mystra’s sour, myrrhe soaked soul makes Ambre Sultan seem like a bouncy, happy puppy in comparison.
If you’ve ever read Chandler Burr’s The Emperor of Scent, then you’ll recall how Turin has worked with, and inhaled, chemical fumes that made his co-workers reel in fear and disgust. Many fellow faculty members lodged formal complaints against him, claiming that he was putting them all in danger by exposing them to toxic substances.
I’ve come to the unfortunate conclusion that, through the years, his direct and repeated exposure to these fumes must have addled his brain and significantly impaired his judgement — this is the only rational explanation I can come up with for his enthusiastic thumbs-up review of such an unlikable fragrance.
Octavian at 1000 Fragrances writes that: “(Mystra) explores the Byzantine world and religious historical smells in an astonishing way – far from the easy pleasant side . . . It’s not the opulent sexy Byzantine perfume that would make you feel attractive . . . but a whisper of death in a decadent universe.”
In other words, it smells like something used to mummify bodies before burial, which I suppose could be nice, if you’re Elvira and you want to wear it for Halloween. Average Janes and Joes, however, will want to whistle right on past that particular graveyard.
Mystra gets less sour and unpleasant when you hit the drydown phase of it, but that’s a classic example of damning something with faint praise, so what’s the point? Mystra is available only from a small company in Australia, and they don’t ship to the United States. Thank god for small miracles.
