Chanel desperately needs to push the envelope with its masculine fragrances. This is how I felt when I tried Antaeus, Jacques Polge's woody chypre of 1981. I've read a lot about it, and many writers have opined on the scent's in-your-face character. Some have even compared it to Kouros by YSL. There are musings on how dynamic its honey note is, how it's a symbol for gay pride, and how nothing else in the Chanel lineup can touch its style and panache. Most of what I read is persuasive; Antaeus is a striking package, all sleek black lines and vintage lettering. It's as if its bottle is announcing itself as Polge's Kouros, Chanel's black sheep.
So it was with little trepidation that I tried Antaeus recently, to finally smell what all the hubbub is about. The scent starts out with a smooth blend of sage, coriander, bergamot, and something pungently animalic, while also discreetly green and floral. After a few seconds, I realized the animalic note is castoreum. It's lively, but definitely not in-my-face. After about ten minutes, the patchouli, oak moss, labdanum, and myrhh arrive, all blended into an oddly creamy olfactory illusion of sandalwood and honey. It's a waxy sort of honey, and indeed, Antaeus boasts a beeswax note in its pyramid. The effect is quite smooth and a little bitter. Nice, but nothing extraordinary. An hour later, the composition slips into a creamy drydown of wildflowers and labdanum.
Every time I sniffed my wrist, I wonder when the party will start. Where's the caricatured note? Why isn't the patchouli enormous? How about a slower castoreum, something that really saunters into the heart and base, staying the course to the drydown? What I smell is calm, composed, stately. Sure, it's very masculine, but the right woman could pull this off (not so with Kouros). Antaeus smells rich and powdery, a rosy chypre profile that sequesters away all ambition to spend the afternoon picnicking in the park while sipping dessert wine and reading Proust.
While by no means dull, it's a far cry from challenging. This is a comfortable fragrance, the sort of thing you can slip on like a pair of slippers. It has me envisioning stuffy British diplomats at a gentleman's club, smoking cigars and twirling their moustaches. In any case, it is artfully made, but its quality does not overcome its ubiquity. Antaeus is expensive when you can find it. Kouros, on the other hand, isn't. Between the two, I prefer the one with animalis, but I still appreciate Antaeus as a classic any man can pull off.