Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum (Prada)

The Luna Rossa Ocean line is intriguing, particularly because the concepts behind these fragrances are often misunderstood—sometimes wildly so. To put it simply, people expect these to be bog-standard aquatics because "Ocean" is in their name. There's also a forest-for-the-trees element, where folks mistakenly think that the artistry of perfume rests solely in note pyramids, while altogether missing that disparate notes like saffron and oak can be tied together to create a pastiche of something cool and salty, like the sea. While I won’t delve into those broader misconceptions here, Ocean Le Parfum serves as a prime example of how a fragrance can reveal people's “olfactory conditioning.” This so-called “Red Moon” fragrance is an aquatic—a profoundly good one—but much of the general public overlooks this because it doesn’t conform to aquatic tropes.

Many perceive it as a spicy-woody amber scent, full of cinnamon, saffron, and modern oriental flourishes. And yes, those elements are present, especially saffron, which is prominent. But the real magic is not in each note, but in how they all coalesce: they merge into a sparkly synthetic ambergris. The mystery perfumer combined materials like Amber XTreme (IFF) and Safranal (Givaudan), forming a silvery mineralic amber accord that creates its own little glittering in the nose, so to speak. The result captures the essence of summer beach air, cushioned with a warm freshness that’s far removed from the lavender and fruity notes typical of designer aquatics. This isn’t the romanticized scent of seawater or “blue” accords dominated by Calone and Melonal. Instead, it’s the sensory experience of being in and around the ocean. There's hot pepper for animalism, and a woody-amber sand. The concept is “Ocean,” but the execution captures how your body feels and responds to it, rather than directly mimicking marine notes, and that is what you pay for here. This fragrance is from the Ocean Rain school of aquatics, not Acqua di Giò.

It's also an exceptionally thoughtful birthday gift from two members of my family, and I cherish it even more because of that. With designer lines now priced alongside niche competitors, acquiring 100 ml of Luna Rossa Ocean Le Parfum would’ve been out of reach without their generosity. For me, this fragrance still leans “aquatic” in spirit, despite what others may say. And to those who insist it’s merely a spicy oriental, the YouTubers who write it off as not meeting their expectations because it isn't a member of the blue-bottle brigade, I say, just enjoy it. This is a truly unique creation. If you’ve never traveled or experienced the ocean, this scent will transport you there. Don’t let the red packaging mislead you—this is a 21st century ambergris dream.

Luna Rossa (Prada)

Luna Rossa strikes me as a "modern lavender" with an edge, its central note of lavender deliberately adorned with an extravagant dose of overtly synthetic accents. What surprises me, however, is the abrasiveness of its fougère accord. Prada, a house known for crafting smooth, complex, and impeccably soapy fougère-orientals like Amber Pour Homme, appears to have faltered here. Luna Rossa has no reason to smell harsh and cheap, yet it does. For a luxury brand, this is disheartening. Wearing Luna Rossa feels oddly utilitarian and frustratingly uninspired—a sensation akin to discovering that your first-class plane ticket has relegated you to coach because the aircraft lacks a first-class section.

Loosely translated, "Luna Rossa" means "Red Moon." Yet the fragrance embodies neither the fiery passion of “red” nor the ethereal allure of the “lunar.” Instead, it smells as its bottle looks: cold, metallic, and reflective. The lavender note is herbal and bitter, steeped in sharp orange that veers into "screechy grey citrus" territory. As the top notes dissipate, a peculiar sweetness emerges, likely attributed to the ambrette seed—softly musky and faintly warm. Within two hours, the scent develops a detached, powdery aura reminiscent of iris and evocative of Prada’s Infusion line. However, this powdery quality is marred by an oddly stiff and overly sweet musk. It feels blatantly synthetic, as if the perfumer overestimated its naturalness and miscalculated its dosage.

This synthetic misstep is a recurring issue in Prada’s Infusion line, but at least those fragrances have some redeeming elements of quality. Luna Rossa, by contrast, smells cheap from start to finish. Eventually, a threadbare dose of Ambroxan ushers the failed herbal composition toward a gauzy, laundry-like drydown. Mercifully, the entire experience ends at the five-hour mark. Its longevity is fair but unremarkable, and frankly, that’s a relief. In reviewing Luna Rossa, I’m mindful of its target audience: young adults, particularly teenagers and twenty-somethings with less seasoned olfactory palates. While it may seem unimpressive or naff to professional adults, a teenage wearer of Luna Rossa might come across as more sophisticated than his peers. It likely charms the ladies and, at the very least, it’s not Axe.

Amber (Prada)

Hurricane Sandy is almost upon us, and this may be my last blog post for a while as I wait for the restoration of internet and power to my area later this week. I’m hoping the storm isn’t as “perfect” as the ratings-hungry TV forecasters claim, and that perhaps we in Connecticut will be spared the worst of it. Unfortunately, it’s already quite windy outside, and the storm is still 500 miles away. This begs the question: how much windier will it get when it’s only 50 miles away? The outlook feels decidedly grim, with severe flood warnings blanketing the entire state. As Tom Petty once sang, “We’ve gotta get to a higher place.”

Ambery orientals, I’ve decided, are inherently unisex. Whether this has always been true or is a byproduct of the twenty-first century’s forgiving, multicultural zeitgeist, I’m not sure. But nowadays, it seems both men and women can wear them effortlessly. Floral orientals, and even some spicy orientals, can be trickier, but the smooth, warm, and diffuse nature of a well-crafted amber allows each gender its own interpretation of the genre. Prada’s Amber, for instance, is a solid contender: a thoroughly patchouli-amber-sandalwood composition that, while not groundbreaking, excels in affability and comes housed in a brilliant bottle. It bears a resemblance to Shalimar but with less citrus on top and a woodier base.

This isn’t to say Amber’s citrus notes are inferior. Its bergamot is bright and very pleasing. However, Shalimar’s citrus notes are unparalleled within the oriental category. From Amber’s citrus emerges a cool vanilla, grounded by earthy patchouli and transitioning into a woodsy-warm amber resting on a lush sandalwood foundation. While some detect prominent floral notes of ylang-ylang, jasmine, and rose, I experience none of these. Perhaps it’s a matter of skin chemistry. Either way, Prada Amber is a lovely little amber, well worth every penny.

Infusion d'Iris Eau de Parfum (Prada)

Iris is a note of much contention within niche perfume circles. The debate centers on what, exactly, this note smells like. Some argue it is best represented by orris root, which produces an aroma distinct from the flower itself. Fabienne Pavia, in her book The World of Perfume, claims orris root resembles the scent of violets. Dane from Pere de Pierre compares it to carrots, noting that while Infusion d’Iris is pleasant, it smells far from natural. Meanwhile, WebAnswers offers a broad yet unhelpful response to the question “What does the flower iris smell like?”: simply, “pleasant flowers.” Clearly, consensus remains elusive.

Infusion d’Iris doesn’t smell particularly natural, and I wouldn’t call it a definitive “reference iris” perfume. However, it offers a compelling rendition of the powdery, rooty essence of orris blended with the delicate sweetness of iris flower. To distill it down: Infusion d’Iris is profoundly powdery. It opens with a burst of desiccated citrus—sharp orange and bergamot—that transitions into a cool, silky floral note. This phase evokes the iris in Green Irish Tweed, a muted, slightly floral accord. Let not the snobs insist that iris cannot smell floral; it often does, and there’s nothing absurd about observing it. After all, iris is a flower, and certain varieties do smell beautiful.

Following this silky interlude comes a darker, earthier phase, constructed from vetiver, incense, cedar, and benzoin, which lend the composition a subtle warmth. Beyond this, the fragrance becomes a study in dry, earthy powder. It’s a beautiful creation, albeit not one I would wear frequently. There’s a poised, almost rigid quality to Infusion d’Iris that feels incongruous with my personality. It’s better suited to businesswomen, particularly those navigating the white-collar world who require an elegantly unapproachable fragrance—a perfume that commands respect. In this regard, it excels.

Amber Pour Homme (Prada)

As many of you know, my favorite soap is Irish Spring, now produced by Colgate. So whenever I come across a fragrance reminiscent of Irish Spring, I get excited. Surprisingly, very few fragrances capture its exact essence, and only a handful fall within the same general realm. The only fragrance I’ve encountered that truly mirrors Irish Spring is Sung Homme. Even then, it’s not a perfect match—more like 95%. Sung smells as if someone deconstructed the basic soap scent, replaced its elements with higher-quality aromachemicals, added a few ingredients for complexity, and then recomposed it according to Colgate’s specifications. It’s heavenly stuff.

Amber Pour Homme doesn’t score as highly on the Irish Spring doppelgänger scale, but it’s about 70% there. It lacks the soap’s pungency and doesn’t combine vetiver and vanilla in the same way. However, Amber generates a similar clean, green, soapy vibe. It’s a modernized take on this fragrance type, and perhaps not coincidentally, Amber and Sung Homme share a similar purple hue. If you need a primer on what “soapy” smells like, try Amber Pour Homme—it’s an education in soapiness. One mystery with Amber Pour Homme, gleaned from reading online reviews, is that many people don’t perceive Irish Spring in it. Yet these same people find Irish Spring’s essence in Creed’s Green Valley, Green Irish Tweed, Aspen, and Cool Water—four fragrances that, in my opinion, couldn’t be further from Irish Spring. Amber Pour Homme’s resemblance to Irish Spring is the only reason I truly like it and consider it full-bottle worthy.

If you took Sung Homme’s angular soapiness, smoothed its edges, dialed back the synthetic green elements, and amplified the bright interplay of bergamot and neroli, you’d have Amber Pour Homme. This bright soapiness evolves into a deeper drydown of vanilla and myrrh, accented by hints of saffron, vetiver, and tonka. Common sense might suggest that citrus, herbs, and green grasses wouldn’t pair well with vanilla, but that assumption is entirely wrong. They work beautifully together, and without this combination, the concept would fall apart. Amber Pour Homme executes this blend with finesse, culminating in a musky finish that’s soft, warm, and breezy, like summer air wafting through a bathroom window after a shower. This fragrance’s dual warm/cool nature makes it versatile for any season, day or night. It’s casual and inoffensive yet playful and sexy, with a sweet freshness that cuts through sweat and other unpleasant odors. Gentlemen, whenever you’re unsure how you should smell, wear Amber Pour Homme. You simply can’t go wrong with a fragrance that embodies smooth, masculine soap.

Candy (Prada)

It seems fitting that a follow-up review to Proctor & Gamble's Old Spice is one of Candy by Prada. To me, they represent the opposite ends of the socioeconomic fragrance spectrum. On the one side (let's symbolically say the "right" side) you have the über-expensive haute couture gourmand, its core excessively saturated in one rare ingredient. On the other (again, we'll suggest it's the "left" side) is an inexpensive standby oriental of no particular interest aside from its incredibly pleasant smell. 

The first fragrance is financially segregationist; the second is ubiquitous at an eternally flat premium. One boasts flashy packaging; the other scent is barely packaged at all. One is destined to be forever great; the other perfume is never going to move beyond a shortlist of admirers, and for a few good reasons. Yeah, I know - I switched it up on that last comparison. The shortlist is for Candy.

This is the second fragrance by Prada that I've tried, the first being its signature feminine oriental from 2004. I'll review that one this winter. Candy, suffice to say, is an unerringly pleasant scent. It opens with a lush and sorta fruity burst of sugary goodness. I'm getting hints of sweetened citrus, devoid of tang, sugared and stripped down to a gauzy denotation. Washing up behind it is an ocean of benzoin, supported on a caramelized vanilla musk. There's a lot of benzoin going on here. One could even say there's 12% benzoin going on here (bullshit, but a worthy sentiment). 

The sweetness tenders as the minutes pass, and gradually becomes a truer benzoin, a root beer olfactory illusion against a spicy tolu balsam. It conjures conflicting images of gourmet caramels piled around bottles of Robitussin. It's weird. But it's also quite nice; Daniela Roche-Andrier's effective implementation of quality ingredients puts her formula squarely in the coveted bracket of being unforgettably original. Future references to candy-like perfumes will inevitably lead to Candy.

As with all evanescent entries in the fragrance catalog, Candy's real problem has little to do with itself, and everything to do with its context in the grand scheme of things. It smells (and looks) like something from 1998, not 2011. I'm reminded of Chanel's Allure Homme, Gaultier's Le Male, and Hilfiger's Tommy while sniffing Candy. The times aren't sweet and care-free anymore, and it would be wise for couture firms to remember that. 

Lord knows they haven't. As soon as I mentally adjust this scent to the current market, it gets into trouble. Candy's scent profile joins gaudy commercial celebuscents like Beyonce Pulse and Someday by Justin Bieber, company from which one should separate, not integrate. I expect piles of greenbacks will be carted into Prada's coffers thanks to Candy. However, as soon as another firm's answer to Candy resonates with buyers, the cache of this original will be eagerly looted, and eventually diminished alongside dozens of other gourmands. In two years it'll be little more than a living memory. BTW, Candy's licensee is Puig, purveyor of the wonderful Agua Lavanda and Quorum. 

Orientals seem to fare better with serious-minded adults when they pander to classical excess (think YSL's Opium), and avoid contemporary nouveau-gourmand silliness. Although Candy isn't really a silly scent, its target audience of midlife crisis Manhattanites is. So is its pink color scheme. Note to Prada: change the bottle's band to another less-obvious color. And lose the sugar, add some spice. I'll be wearing Old Spice while I wait for an improved flanker.