WAIT FOR THE MOMENT WHEN: Bette Davis…

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…beautiful, blind and dying, plants the hyacinth bulbs in DARK VICTORY ; expires in the throes of syphilis in OF HUMAN BONDAGE; crazed for drink smashes open the cocktail cabinet in DANGEROUS; watches Herbert Marshall die on the stairs in THE LITTLE FOXES; goes bananas in the witness box in BORDERTOWN… . The First Lady of the Screen had so many extraordinary moments during a career of over 50 years that LW hardly knows where to begin. Let’s draw a bow at a venture and watch Bette at her zenith in one of her smoothest, most satisfying pictures NOW,VOYAGER (1942): a great cast, capable director & thrilling Max Steiner score, not to mention the leading lady’s lifelong approval of the finished product (very rare).

Fascinating movie: a glossy smoothly- buffed soap opera with a veneer of Hollywood’s then obsession with psychology & psychoanalysis. (What prompted this trend anyway? The trauma of the Second World War?). Or is NOW, VOYAGER in fact the other away about – an entire medical library of neuroses dressed up in Orry Kelly couture and sprays of camellias? My DVD bears the incomprehensible caveat “contains mild sexualised nudity”. In fact there IS no nudity, sexualised or otherwise, but there are a great many pools of dark deep water. Electra complexes¤, eating disorders, constant drinking – alcohol used as a crutch*/ “pre-drinking” – frustrated sexuality, mental sadism, broken marriages, adultery, unwanted pregnancies, unlimited guilt.

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NOW, VOYAGER is also a vast chocolate box of soft centre wish-fulfilment. Davis as the unkempt and sexually repressed spinster Charlotte Vale – ” ‘introverted, Doctor ‘” – in the grip of a nervous breakdown is transformed by psychiatrist Claude Rains (and unlimited money) into a glamorous femme du monde**. Furnished with trunks of stunning gowns Charlotte is sent on a cruise to Brazil*** where she is seduced by purring, sensitive, unhappily married Jerry (Paul Henried). In one of the many mirror images of the narrative we see that this is the second memorable cruise of Charlotte’s life: as an attractive girl she was deflowered by a ship’s officer and subsequently imprisoned – actually + emotionally – at home by her monstrous mother, Gladys Cooper•. In South America, Charlotte’s incandescent sexual fulfillment is thwarted once again, but now she sublimates her love for Jerry in caring for his highly disturbed daughter – in whom of course she sees herself as a child. At which point the movie becomes weirdly familiar as we recall similar plots and themes from other Davis hits which revolve around tormented or problematic motherhood, both actual and surrogate: THE OLD MAID, THE GREAT LIE, WATCH ON THE RHINE, ALL THIS AND HEAVEN TOO, THAT CERTAIN WOMAN, THE CORN IS GREEN, THE CATERED AFFAIR,THE NANNY, THE ANNIVERSARY…there are others.•• One may not immediately associate Bette Davis with maternity# yet it is a theme that dominated both her private and artistic life: one of her quasi-autobiographies is entitled ‘Mother Goddam’ – “I have often called myself this to my children”. No other of the great female stars played mothers in such great diversity and quantity. Was this one secret of Bette’s huge popularity, especially with female audiences? Davis later admitted to a series of abortions for the sake of her career before finally giving birth to a daughter – ‘B.D.’ – in 1946. This was the child (glimpsed as a teenage neighbour in WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE?) who was to betray her mother in print at the very end.

Contemporary and later critics have carped that by 1942 every Davis performance had become an over-familiar exercise in mannerism and technique. Myself, I think she’s very much still on top form in NOW,VOYAGER which belongs to her golden age of performances covering a period of roughly eight years from 1935 : she was only 34 and still able to convince as the young Charlotte in flashback. The startling originality of vision, the freshness, zest, vast energy and attack are still there. And the thoroughness: she holds back nothing. She has the support of a sympathetic director and the energising tension (maybe also the competitive threat) of two highly magnetic and charismatic co-stars – Cooper## and Rains – who are more than capable of holding their own against her. Rains was the only actor (and they appeared in four films together) able to upstage Davis, as he does in the later grotesque – and highly diverting – melodrama DECEPTION (1946). And of course she loved him for it.

By the end of the War, however, Davis was ageing badly. Her tiny figure (5’2″) thickened, her notorious low-slung bosom became matronly and her face showed the strain of a personal and professional life of unremitting struggle and disappointment. She seemed to become exhausted by an inner fire of perpetual rage; and stimulated only by rare scripts such as ALL ABOUT EVE and WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO BABY JANE? which re-ignited her extraordinary electric talent. She burned out consumed by her own energy and thwarted creativity; and I think by a certain bafflement at her own vast talent and how best to express it within the constraints of her time and circumstances.

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Everyone remembers the climactic shtik of NOW,VOYAGER: the two cigarettes, the moon and the stars. There are two additional leitmotifs which come from the original novel and are of particular interest to us students of fragrance.

” ‘ I have only a dried corsage and an empty bottle of perfume’ “. The flowers are Jerry’s camellias (his pet name for Charlotte is Camille, a nom de guerre resonant with tragic romance). The perfume is also gift from Jerry – “a slight offering” – after their first shore excursion: spent, with high irony, drinking and selecting gifts for his family. Much is made of this little bottle of scent: “A little bottle of perfume made me feel important…”

” ‘It’s a mixture of several kinds of flowers: it’s called Jolies Fleurs.’

‘I’ll put some on my handkerchief tonight’ “.

On her hanky, please note, not on herself. This may be 1942 but well-bred ladies from Boston are still not applying perfume directly onto the skin. (And we remember Bette as a colonial middle class Englishwoman in THE LETTER exhibiting a similar olfactory discretion). In fact on the ship-board night in question we do not see the perfume brought out; though the hanky is constantly on show, then and later. The scent itself is used to make a dramatic point a couple of reels further in when Charlotte is back in Boston coping with mum & the family; and being courted by a stuffy disapproving old widower. A bracing box of camellias arrives from Jerry (secret squirrels), and we watch Charlotte scenting her hair with the lightest touch of Jolies Fleurs as she dresses for the evening. The scent is her amulet, her talisman: like love, its magic spell is everywhere. Aren’t we all fortunate to be able to make use of it?

BETTE DAVIS 1908 – 1989

¤ not one but THREE problematic mother/daughter relationships: one playful but sinister – “you’ve heard of us? June and December?”; the other two a life & death struggle for existence.

* ” ‘…and because of the drink she lost her inhibitions…..I sound very depraved, don’t I?’ ”

** but Charlotte’s hair is still very tightly secured by numerous combs, and the elementary symbolism of the sequinned butterflies on her evening cloak is much discussed. Everything in old Hollywood pictures has a meaning, as it does in a medieval painting: the greatest difference, perhaps, between vintage cinema and that of today.

*** Latin America: another 1940’s movie obsession on account of the loss of the European cinema market during WW2.

• It is discreetly implied that Mrs Vale’s own sex life was distinctly chilly.

•• one might also reflect on the mother/daughter relationship of Margo Channing + Eve Harrington. Unless you are one of those who see their bond as essentially lesbian?

# contrary-wise, there is always the reference to her perpetual smoking: yet so many of her greatest hits have not a cigarette in sight. Start with all those costume pictures and keep counting.

## please take note of Gladys’s nurse: “‘Pickford’s the name. Dora, not Mary’ “. She’s played by Mary Wickes who had one of the longest careers in the movies: she’s the pawky old nun in all those SISTER ACT epics.

Wait For The Moment When: Mae West

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…manifests on screen. Her film debut (she’d been on the New York stage for 20 years) was a supporting role in Night After Night in 1932, a film remembered now only for Mae and the exchange:

“Goodness, what beautiful diamonds!”

“Goodness had nothing to do with it dearie!”

The more you think about it the funnier it is; with its lilting scansion it is also poetically simple. Maybe that’s why the line is so frequently garbled and misquoted – as with Marilyn needing 58 takes to recite “where’s that bourbon?” while simultaneously opening a drawer. Less is more. Legendary theatrical turns of a century ago were by modern standards basic, even nugatory, but nonetheless radiated a concentrated energy (Sarah Bernhardt expected nightly to die on stage). Mae undulated an indolent shimmy, yowled suggestive songs, rotated her hips and delivered startling innuendo in that curious voice, part nasal, part mashed potato, that veered between New York brashness and tom cat purr. It was an old music hall persona but brand new to the screen: Hollywood kept Miss West on ice till the talkies arrived. Despite her extraordinary appearance she was also a creature of aurality as her notoriety on the wireless testifies.

Once she appears, you can’t take your eyes off her: the only definition of a true star. Like Garbo – quite unlike, say, Davis, Crawford or Rita Hayworth – she ignores everyone else in the picture: they are laid on merely as feeds and props. Far larger and stranger than life, entirely self-obsessed, Mae loves Mae. While appearing so transparently lubricious and blatantly arousing she is in fact a complete enigma. Presenting nothing but sex, is she in fact sexy?

Entirely the wrong figure and silhouette for her era, she dresses in a parody of the styles of the 1890’s. Her sweeping spangled gowns conceal the 8″ inch heels and soles that, with pompadours and plumes, transform her from petite to Statue of Liberty dimensions. The legs are rarely glimpsed. Never a beauty, Mae was 40 before she filmed, with an odd little face which Cecil Beaton later likened to that of an ape. Was she laughing at herself or was she deadly serious? Was she really a man, as has often been suggested? Was she the experienced voluptuary she implied or a sexually neurotic woman who avoided intimacy, preferring (like Somerset Maugham) “to be touched only by prior arrangement”.

From increasingly bizarre interviews and memoirs over the decades it’s impossible to tell. I always liked the account of one interview where she generated electricity from the nylon carpet to transmit a shock on shaking hands. Why did Billy Wilder have Mae down as his first choice for Norma Desmond? Had he got her number right off?

Yet one of Mae’s most endearing features is that on film she always appears to be enjoying herself: another aspect of the star persona. This is so even in the movie mistakes of her old age, Myra Breckinridge and Sextette, despite microphones hidden in her false hair to feed her dialogue, and with technicians kneeling on the floor propelling her around the set. There is on You Tube a sweet interview with Mae talking to Dick Cavett – her vast bosom is corseted and tightly upholstered in black velvet, and she comes over as a darling and slightly raffish old lady who has spent a jolly life in saloon bars (needless to say, she was in fact strictly teetotal). She looks fun and – as was once said of Swanson – she is fun to think about, too.

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Rochas took Mae at face value when he and Edmond Roudnistka created FEMME towards the end of World War Two. Couturier Marcel Rochas had known West for years as a client: he now designed the flacon as a surreal vision of the celebrated hips. Naturally it feels wonderful to hold. The box was patterned with the black lace panels that Rochas used to create the optical illusion of a slimmer figure. So maybe the sweet and fruity (prunes, but crystallised) chypre has a touch of tongue in cheek. Today – if you can find a bottle – it is still gorgeous and fascinating despite the passage of 70 years; and so, on celluloid, is Mae.

‘Oh, Beulah…’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Peel me a grape.’

MAE WEST 1893 – 1980

Be My Valentine?

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What’s one of the very nicest things you can buy your loved one on Valentine’s Day?

“Perfume” I hear you murmur, with quiet confidence. Quite right.

I’ll tell you why.

Perfume smells lovelier than store-boughten flowers which nowadays seem to have sacrificed scent for gorgeousness of colour and immensity of size.

It will smell even more delicious than a fine dining experience or a designer box of chocs; and fragrance carries none the concomitant risks to health and fitness.

And it lasts so much, much longer than either of the above. You always get your money’s worth with scent; besides which, you can personalise it in witty and exquisite ways.

Look, I’ll show you:

To make a successful gift of perfume you have to give a lot of yourself and that is always the best gift of all. You need to plan your purchase to fit your loved one as snugly as a pair of hand-made shoes. Get into his (or her) head – take a tour around his personality and choose a scent accordingly. Staff at Les Senteurs are always happy to help you translate ideas into actions if you need a little assistance.

Think laterally: consider, say, your partner’s favourite movie, colour or flower and pick a perfume to reflect that. If you were going down the cinematic route you might choose a fragrance notably worn or inspired by your inamorata’s favourite star ( Frederic Malle & Dominique Ropion created Carnal Flower with Candice Bergen in mind; Catherine Deneuve was Francis Kurkdjian’s inspiration for Lumiere Noire). Or you could select a perfume worn in a much-loved film. Think of Norma Desmond’s tuberoses in Sunset Boulevard or Caron’s Fleur de Rocaille in The Scent of a Woman. If you wept over Titanic, then track down a scent that was captivating the world in 1912. We have several such treasures – cast your eye and nose over the great Houses of Houbigant, Grossmith and, once again, the inevitable and unique Caron.

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Candice Bergen in Carnal Knowledge

Matching flowers is easy to do, but so romantic and adorable if you take the trouble to discover what she really loves: we have luscious rose perfumes of all types ( dark, dewy, spicy, fruity, innocent, lascivious, smoky, waxy ); but Les Senteurs also holds captive the most beautiful examples of gardenia, ylang ylang, lily of the valley, magnolia and orange blossom. A married gentlemen may like to remember what his wife carried in her bridal bouquet and match those blooms in fragrance. Ladies, you can do the same with your husband’s boutonniere or the favourite plants he cultivates for the garden show. Don’t forget: men love flowers too.

A rose that's perfect for men and women.

A rose that’s perfect for men and women.

Now I mentioned colour which may surprise some of you. I don’t mean the colour of the packaging or the bottle (though this may play its part). I’m talking about a factor that’s rather more subtle. By and large, if a person likes brilliant, strong vibrant hues then that individual will go for expressive rich perfumes too. Contrary wise, admirers of white, beige, cream and pastels will tend to prefer lighter airier fragrances. So consider the colours your beloved wears, the shades your lover paints his rooms and let your instinct guide you like a bee to the honey.

Bette Davis in 'Now, Voyager'

Bette Davis in Now, Voyager

Nothing stimulates memory like the sense of smell so another cute idea would be to conjure up thoughts of a special time you have enjoyed together and celebrate it in scent. If the earth moved for you, try Nu_Be’s explosive and elemental dawn-of-the-universe fragrances. Recreate a day at the sea; an ocean voyage; a holiday in Havana, Istanbul, London, China or Morocco; an evening at the ballet. Or, more modestly, an afternoon in the vegetable garden, a shared creamcake, a romantic breakfast – even the wicked intimacy of a shared cigarette. “O Jerry don’t let’s ask for the moon, we have the stars.”
Getting the idea? Choosing a romantic gift should and can be such a pleasure: and I think I can promise that the more you enjoy the selection, the more delight the chosen perfume will give to the recipient.

Happy Valentines from all at LES SENTEURS!

Une Touche de Rouge

Rothko Foundation Robert Bayer, basel

Whenever Nicky Haslam is introduced on the radio I jump to it, adjusting the tuning and turning up the sound for he always has something fascinating to say to be pondered on later. In youth he was a friend of the great beauty, wit, ambassadress and writer Lady Diana Cooper and I always wait for her to come up in his conversation. The other day was no exception. Mr Haslam talked of Diana Cooper’s mother, the 8th Duchess of Rutland and her singular views on interior decoration. Violet Rutland – “the artistic Duchess” – was an original in all her attitudes. Diana’s memoirs recall how her mother drew and sculpted to professional standard; condemned tomatoes, lemon flavourings, holding hands and being seasick as common; invariably wore the family tiara back to front. When I was a child our old gardener remembered working for the Rutlands at Belvoir Castle and pinching Violet’s behind as she sat sketching in shrubbery, mistaking her rear view for that of an under parlourmaid.

Violet passed on to her daughter this fascinating theory that when you come to furnish a room, it should always be completed with “une touche de rouge”. I couldn’t wait to try out this idea but I soon realised that it was already in effect willy- nilly around the house – the principle works so well that you often seem to achieve it effortlessly and involuntarily, almost instinctively. That splash of red, however small, which brings the rest of the room together, like lipstick completing and signing off a woman’s maquillage. The scarlet cushion dumped down in a decor of blues, pink and ochre; one crimson parrot tulip on the kitchen dresser; a vermilion tooth glass; a bowl filled with nasturtiums. Positioning that touche de rouge is like switching on a light.

Red is the most psychologically, emotionally and culturally loaded of all the colours. It’s probably also the most vibrant violent and varied, with infinite associations and resonances. It inevitably stirs up emotions and reactions. In some languages and societies it is the only colour; the same word is used both for “colour” and for “red”. In Russian, “krasnya” means beautiful as well as red. For the Egyptians it was the personification of the bare burning desert, of chaos, war and evil. Nuns used to be permitted a red pocket hanky as the only spot of colour in their dress: a psychological crutch, an emotional licence implicitly acknowledged by the Rule. It’s the colour of prostitution, a tradition going right back to the early books of the Old Testament; of passion, life, love, victory, blood, danger, birth, help, warning, justice. In the Bette Davis vehicle Jezebel, red provides the plot: Davis perversely wears a “gloriously red” gown to the virginally white Olympus Ball, losing her lover and ruining her life in consequence. Even in black and white, such are the mental associations  of the colour – Jezebel the Scarlet Woman – that the device works without reservation. Red is all things to all men: to me it always manifests with something of a shriek. I can’t wear it, makes me look like a corpse.

How can the touche de rouge relate to scent? I think it’s the leaven in the lump, the unexpected touch of genius, thrown in instinctively, which transforms a humdrum formula into a unique  masterpiece. It’s the overdose of vanillin in Shalimar, the barmily exaggerated aldehydes in No 5, the wine lees in Malle’s Une Rose. For Opium, it was the choice of name: now routine, then so outrageous. Historic Caron perfumes are really one massive touche, a spreading stain of crimson baroque surrealism, a disturbing Rothko canvas. Etat Libre d’Orange’s Encens et Bubblegum is an inspired daub of poppy red.

The touche is not grotesque; it may shock but that is not its aim or purpose. Its not a substitute for creative thinking. It’s not the avocado mousse made up with lime jelly and mandarins or that awful dress run up from sirloin steak or Princess Beatrice’s pretzel wedding hat.  Rather the touche de rouge is the catalyst that brings about the Big Bang, the fiery vital spark of creation.

Picture by Robert Bayer, basel.

Stars With No Papas

Bette Davis Deception

If you make a list of some of the greatest female stars of Hollywood’s golden age it is remarkable to see that so many grew up without the prescence of a father in their lives, either because he died or had absconded in their infancy. Garbo, Dietrich, Joan Crawford, Mary Astor, Jean Harlow, Ginger Rogers, Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, Joan Foantaine and her sister Olivia de Havilland, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Mary Pickford all fall into this category. Consequently, the gifted and luminous child became not only her mother’s fiercely cherished daughter but to some extent, a subsitute for the vanished husband. As an adult, the successful daughter operated psychologically, as the film historian Foster Hirsch so fascinatingly points out in his dvd commentary to the Davis vehicle “Deception”, on a level both male and female; an ambiguity that extended to so many of these women’s notoriously complicated sex-lives.

Abnormally preoccupied with her looks, like anyone whose face is a greater part of her fortune, the fatherless star was also depended upon by her mother and siblings for the family earnings. No wonder that Olivia de Havilland developed the life-long feud with her younger sister which has now run to six decades of “non-speakers” – professionally jealous but also maybe competing for their mother’s affection as not only daughters but surrogate partners and breadwinners. In other cases, the successful sister allowed (within limits) a sibling to trade on her own success: like Mae West’s sister Beverley who made a living imitating her sister on the stage in Mae’s cast-offs. Claudette Colbert employed her brother as her agent. Ginger Rogers’ mother wrote some of her daughter’s material. We also note cases when the original broken marriage which had fired up successful ambition in one child, caused others in the family to fall by the wayside to be ruthlessly dealt with – put in asylums, paid to keep away; and the bizarre case of Merle Oberon’s parent, turned into her own daughter’s maid, pushing in the tea-trolley incognito when gossip columnists were being entertained at the star’s home. The mothers often lived to a great age, fighting for their daughters but simultaneously feeding off them; while, as in a Greek tragedy, they witnessed their child’s rise, apogee, decline and retirement. As Bette Davis had inscribed on her mother’s tombstone: “Ruthie: you will always be in the front row.”

The male side of the star’s character was forced even more to the fore by the incessant unrelenting struggle to survive at the top of the Hollywood tree in an industry dominated by mostly misogynistic male monsters and the decisive role of the casting couch. “She thinks like a man and she drinks like a man,” was the highest accolade the industry could pay while simultaneously covertly mocking this “unnatural” behaviour. Mae West was so strong and powerful an operator that she was stigmatised by the accusation of being a man in drag: a woman could not BE that tough, have such control. Despite the most expert cameramen’s work you can see on film the ocular proof of how quickly the unrelenting fight of keeping at one’s professional and personal peak took its rapid toll on a star’s looks. And of course, she harder she worked and the more she worried, the quicker the lovely face aged. It was said that Garbo was not really concealing her face when she hid from photographers; she was attempting just to hide her beautiful mouth which revealed all too clearly the strain, bitterness and disappointments of her life.

Of course on any terms there is no decent perfume that is JUST for men, ONLY for women. A perfume is a collection of gender non-biased notes, and the user should select a scent that appeals to him emotionally, instinctively and which works perfectly with his skin. A perfume which appears to be more overtly feminine (say, Lys Mediterranee, with its predominantly floral character) can still work well on a man’s skin because his skin chemistry and hormones will tend to subdue the flowery elements of the fragrance and accentuate the greeness, the leafy woodiness at the base. Again, a dark leathery fougere (Knize Ten, say, or Royal Oud) will often soften on a woman’s arm, revealing those rose and jasmine underpinnings which form the spine or core of most scents, but which usually lurk unrevealed. It is often remarked that a man with a more pronounced feminine side will try as it were to “balance” his character with an obviously manly scent – and vice versa. Hard to quantify in Hollywood terms. Often it appears that female stars were trying to enhance their authoritative power aura rather than their orthodox femininity with scents which are heavy, heady and ambiguous: Jean Harlow and Mitsouko, Dietrich with Tabac Blond, Shalimar, Youth Dew and anything with a deep tuberose note; Swanson in Narcisse Noir; all of which incidentally can work superbly for a man, too, if he has the nerve. Crawford tells us in her memoirs how she, like Garbo, preferred contemporary men’s colognes, especially variations on geranium. Zarah Leander, massive, tall, stately with that basso-profundo singing voice made Bandit her signature.

It is harder to know for sure what the male contemporaries of these girls wore: cologne for men was not exactly tabu by then: Caron‘s Pour Un Homme had got the male fragrance industry going in 1934, but it was still not the sort of information that a press agent of a Great Lover would flash around. Memories of Valentino and the “Pink Powder Puff Scandal” were still a tender subject. Knize Ten was a favourite of Maurice Chevalier and Charles Boyer: Gary Cooper (and I believe Charlie Chaplin) wore the interestingly ambiguous Jicky. But if female stars lacked papas, a corresponding pathological syndrome demonstrates that so many of Hollywood’s legendary men seemed unable to procreate male children of their own bodies, despite serial marriages; and if they did, the sons often suicided or died young and tragically. It is as though Cooper, Tyrone Power, Valentino,Cary Grant, Robert Taylor, Hope and Crosby, John Gilbert and the rest needed to muster every scrap of virility and masculinity for themselves: there was nothing left over for their heirs. A  depressing and tragic reflection: how fortunate that we can always lighten the mood (as ever) with a memory and scent of their perfume.

Nosmo King

Catherine Deneuve Smoking

“When I was a girl,” my dear grandmother used to say, lighting a cigarette and plying her lipstick, “no decent woman could be seen to do this”. She was a late Victorian though hated to admit it, and so already in her twenties and a nurse when the universal smoking vogue swept the West. It was the First World War that gave the cigarette trade such an impetus: civilians felt an empathetic bonding with the men at the Front by adopting an essentially military habit. This cheap palliative for the nerves now leapt the class barriers; widely recommended by doctors as a nerve tonic and bracer, it opened the lungs and gave the shy something to do with their hands. An aspirin and a cigarette: the green tea and Yakult of their day.

George V and Queen Mary and all their children were enthusiastic smokers; the hero-padre Woodbine Willie handed out fags to the troops; one of the most widely reproduced portraits of the then Prince of Wales shows him with a gasper glued to his grinning lower lip. Strange now to imagine Prince William thus. The entertainments in the music halls and cinemas were seen through a thick blue haze of cigarette smoke; it was said to deter the moth, discourage germs and the ash good for the carpet.
Superstitions were invented and fostered by the match and cigarette industry to boost sales: if you lit a cigarette from a candle, a sailor would drown; the 3rd person to light a cigarette from the same match would die. Warner Bros even made a talkie about that one – Three On A Match.

For on the films smoking was presented as the acme of sophistication: in the days before cork tips, many an actress made a very sexy trick of picking loose threads of tobacco from her tongue as she vamped the hero: Garbo in Mata Hari does it with blush-making eroticism. The idea of Bette Davis, Bogart or Dietrich “sans cigarette” is almost impossible; Gloria Swanson’s bizarre holder is woven into the script of Sunset Boulevard, a motif of sexual entrapment, and the addiction of fame. A husky smoky voice – Dietrich, Bacall, Bankhead – could also be yours if you kept puffing. What girl could resist? Or what man fail to pick up on the virile and phallic connotations exhaled by Gable, Flynn and Gary Cooper, smoking their heads off as they took the world and women by storm?

So it was only a matter of time before smoking hit the perfume industry – and how – starting with Caron’s revolutionary Tabac Blond in 1919, an ambisexual dark golden “sit up and see me” scent based the fragrance on raw tobacco, and never off the market since. A considerable part of its appeal is the artfulness with which (if you are a smoker, or keeping company with one) it transmutes the smell of smoke into a perfume of its own, adding a third fragrant odour to your aura. Then in 1924 Molinard came up with Habanita, a blend of sweaty vetiver, fleshy white jasmine …and the scent of the hot dusty cigar factories of Havana. Black as the tropical night, almost embarrassingly seductive. Tabu played with the tobacco note; so did Knize Ten incorporating it with leather, thereby pioneering another perfume family, besides iconographing images of contemporary militarism and celebrating the new social and political emancipation of women. But how apt that true to the illusions of perfumery and the movies, tobacco itself is not actually used in these scents: they depend on an accord of patchouli, hay, honey, beeswax, amber and woods

And the trend continues today; but with the difference that smoking is now officially perceived as something low-down, unhealthy, wicked and dangerously anti-social. A wittily subversive perfume like Jasmin + Cigarettes references this with tongue in cheek brio. A saucy combination of smoke and jasmine, that most ambiguous of floral oils with a built-in grubby sexuality; a suggestion of (horrors) smoking in bed…and not alone, at that; the hay note comes through, complemented by an unexpected odour of apricots – connotations of warm, nude skin. So a kaleidoscope of images, including once more the cinematic, is rounded off by a suggestion of that most delicious ciggie of all: on a hot beach, enhanced by salt sea air.

As a veteran said on film, remembering Woodbine Willie: “I wish he were here now!”

Image from cfrankdavis.wordpress.com