Mugler's perfumes share the distinction of being the rare kind that one can enjoy without even trying - all you need to do is look at the bottles! Whoever is on the Mugler design team can be applauded for having very, ahem, unique visual sensibilities. It's impossible to walk past a Mugler counter and not pause to marvel at the array of unorthodox shapes.
For some reason Alien stands apart, eclipsing even the bizarrely compressed polyhedron star of Angel. Its upright flask is a cross between a remote control and a Dung Beetle, and seems to challenge every conceivable assumption one might make about the juice housed within. The only assumption safe to make is that confusion, intimidation, and sheer awe were the intended reactions here.
I wish I could give the fragrance a score that corresponds with my appreciation of its container, but alas, it cannot be. First to hit my skin is a rocket booster of highly synthetic (and oddly sour) jasmine mixed with violet-like sweet notes. The concoction seems to be a dense blend of patented ionones (Dihydro Ionone Beta? Jasmatone?), aldehydes, and detergent musks that have endured several passes with a K2 meter.
After an hour of head-splitting blare, the ensemble settles into a milder and woodier base, with the floral sweetness still shouting from the sidelines. My immediate impression of this evolution is that it is the perfect accessory for someone who uses his or her naked body for money, which covers everyone from strippers and prostitutes to art school models for Life Drawing 101. This is sexual but heady, something that asserts a level of authority over the natural world. It's Red Door for the 21st century.
It's not for me, that's for sure. Ten minutes of uninvited wear on my skin would be enough to send me screaming for the hills. Alien's appeal to young women wishing to push the social envelope is evident, and I can recommend it to anyone who is tired of the same-old, same-old. I'll stick with more human fare, thank you very much.