Dior Homme strikes me as being the perfect fragrance for a church deacon. The muted, somber iris. The muted, somber "fruit" notes, if you can call them that. The muted, somber, borderline-narcoleptic cacao in the base, swept over with funereal talcum powder, and a nondescript suede fuzz. Colorless, flavorless, and entirely sober, Dior Homme is the perfect thing for a man who gives time-killing sermons about the pitfalls of avarice and prodigality. Sound sexy to you? No, didn't think so. It smells about as sexy as a backache, and is likely just as painful for anyone to wear (anyone with an imagination, that is). It is by far the most boring fragrance that I've experienced this year. It astounds me that it is so popular and widely lauded. Then again, sometimes the most popular things are also the most overrated (Breaking Bad, anyone?), so maybe I shouldn't be surprised.
My one point of admiration for Dior Homme is in its treatment of iris, rendered here by the famed synthetic Biolandes material used in every top-shelf designer chypre since 2008 or 2009. You can smell it in Mitsouko's most recent reformulation. You can smell it in Chanel's lovely 31 Rue Cambon. And you can smell it here, except here it doesn't stick out like the sorest of thumbs. Unlike the other two, this fragrance's iris note peeks out to say hello, and recedes into a complementary array of drab notes, which include a gauzy leather/vetiver accord, an unsweetened amber, cool powder, and a soft, chocolate-like musk. It's not really an unpleasant composition, because every phase has its own muffled sweetness, and nothing grizzles, growls, or shouts. The edges are all rounded here, so there's no chance of bruising. Longevity and projection are fair, so expect about two feet of quiet reach within a seven-hour time span. Believe me, by the end of those seven hours you'll want to bathe in Kouros for a week.