If you ever look back at the early 1970s, you’ll see a world that embraced excess with a certain kind of reckless pride. Films were bawdy, vulgar, and all sorts of other things that begin with the letter “v,” but they were competently made and carried an undeniable vibrance. Even the most outrageous productions had craftsmanship behind them, and people took pride in their work—no matter what that work was. You didn’t watch movies in the comfort of your home; even the most risqué entertainment had to be viewed in public theaters, often in major metro hubs like Times Square. After the show, you could step out for a hot dog and then spend the rest of the afternoon shopping at Bloomingdale’s.
Perfume was that way, too. Brut. Jovan Musk. Pierre Cardin Pour Monsieur. Bawdy, bare-chested, ready for anything at any moment—brutal and assaulting the senses as olfactory assailants in their private romances. Yet they were produced on generous budgets using skilled perfumers, and despite their downmarket appeal, they were respectable and widely loved, not unlike the raunchy, provocative films of Jean Rollin. America and Europe had their many differences, but they could agree on their love for indulgence, and perfume was no exception. This was good for culture, good for art, good for society. People were freer, their sense of intellect was deeper, and their senses were attuned to finer things. I dare say that although it was a time before the digital age, it was a time when people were more advanced in their understanding of life.
Today, none of this is true. We have jettisoned art, jettisoned the vulgar, abandoned the wanton excesses of yore, all for the restrictive safety of risk-free sure-things. Movies are pallid ghosts of their former selves, devoid of humor, seduction, and sin. Perfumes have also shriveled up into little shivering weaklings, created not by people of knowledge and power but by scared little runts in off-the-rack suits who think that, because they’re European, sophistication is innate to them and need not be cultivated. They churn out the most focus-grouped garbage, boring sweet ambers, a dime a dozen, simply because an A.I. app tells them it will sell, and they sprinkle in whatever organic note the A.I. is kind enough to recommend. In Burberry Hero Eau de Parfum’s case, it was pine.