Coriolan by Guerlain

Rarely do I find something so evocative. It smells like Caligula: smooth, sweaty, dusty leather, like a weary legionary seeking cheap love in a brothel. After a few minutes, the citrus base with neroli balances everything, closing with vetiver and patchouli, as if returning to the hills for an imperial adventure. I’ll use it for special occasions; it’s a fortunate treasure from a discontinued fragrance. 9/10

A year where olfactory wonders coexisted: 1998. Traveling back in time means landing among great fragrances. Coriolan was perhaps a great misunderstood gem. Its creativity, innovation, and quality weren’t enough to save it from being panned, fated to suffer the same fate as its Roman warrior-senator. It evoked Rome, its seven hills of green olive trees, lush orange groves, and fertile soil. I risked everything and it cost me my life in a decade filled with enemies. Coriolan smelled of Rome, of its hills steeped in olives and earth.

An ignored gem whose memory fades. It arrived twenty years too late and is drifting further from being a gift. It has quality in its notes and an incredible interplay of peaks and valleys. Coriolan isn’t just good; it’s better. It doesn’t matter if you don’t like it or don’t resonate with its hesperidic tone because smelling it is an experience. Saying it’s good is an understatement: it’s exquisite. It disappoints me that twenty years ago, excellent and affordable perfumes were still available. Guerlain was already expensive in 1999, but it was still a moderate expense. What they sell online today is pure garbage—I’m not talking about the art, but the ingredients. Comparing Coriolan to L’Homme Ideal makes me cry. Guerlain still makes good perfumes, but they decided to launch an exclusive, pricier line. Anyone wanting the Guerlain seal at the old price will have to settle for L’Homme Ideal (smells like cucumber with coumarins) or Le Petit Robe Noire, a sticky imitation of Lolita Lempicka. That’s life. There’s a key accord that gives you goosebumps: the moss. I don’t know if it’s diluted by IFRA regulations or if it’s synthetic, like evernyl. Many 70s compositions used low doses of real moss and lots of evernyl. The moss in Coriolan smells authentic—acidic, dry, faded, with a dark grayish green tone, a taste of insidious burnt laundry, and dusty. My nose detects two currents: the first isn’t for everyone; it’s dry, turpentine-like, acidic, and sharp, like a crow’s caw. No gothic vibes here; this is inhospitable. For trained noses, it’s good moss; for novices, it might be unpleasant. After the initial blast, aromatic and bird-like notes enter: vetiver, coriander, and fennel, which are less friendly. Coriolan doesn’t want to please you; we move from a Suevic invasion to an interior with Chippendale sofas, curtains, and mahogany bookshelves. It might smell like an old man, but there’s no danger. The moss is still softened with a masculine aftertaste that takes you back to older men from your childhood. In the end, the lemon lingers—a realistic, hidden hesperid, neither sugary nor harsh, with its exact salty point, weaving together what rises in a blaze and dies in a fougère or hesperid with nuances. It’s not a standard chypre, hesperid, or classic aromatic; it’s something darker, scorched. It could be Chanel Pour Monsieur Eau Sauvage or Boucheron with a touch of Van Cleef. In the end, it resembles nothing. A brutal, honest Guerlain with exquisite quality and naturalness. Its legend is explained by Bofifa: Jean-Paul Guerlain kept it for fifteen or twenty years; its moment was 1985. Sold in the dying days of the 20th century, created in the 80s with eyes on the 60s. The perfect example of how things were done before selling out to LVMH. Putting this next to what they sell today makes me laugh. P.S.: I have a 50ml vial that I keep like gold. I don’t use it more than to delight myself because it doesn’t suit me, but it would be ignorant not to value its beauty. P.S. II: Essential for lovers of masculine scents from the 60s to the 80s. If you’re a follower and you try it, you’ll regret not having an arsenal of bottles. The best I’ve ever tested. P.S. III: Excellent longevity.

The story of Guerlain’s Coriolan is so full of twists that it’s no surprise it only lasted four years. It all began in the mid-80s with Centurion (which eventually became Derby) and its sequel, Centurion 2, later replaced by Héritage. Finally, Coriolan was Jean-Paul Guerlain’s personal gamble. By 1998, the house was owned by LVMH, who assigned creations to selected perfumers. Upset by this, Jean-Paul was given creative freedom, and Centurion 2 was reborn as Coriolan. So here we have a perfume formulated in the mid-80s that finally appeared in the late 90s, right in the middle of the aquatic explosion. The funny thing is that Coriolan isn’t even typical of the 80s; it expresses classicism and timelessness, smelling of interwar Europe, like a suited man with a mustache reading the news about the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo. You can tell it was crafted with care and affection. The bottle is a modernist masterpiece, beautiful and comfortable, just as out of time as its contents. What is Coriolan? A glorious perfume, an exceptional quality floral chypre, an author’s masterpiece that doesn’t aim for trends or commercial success. I bet the LVMH executives broke a sweat seeing it. It’s a niche perfume in full swing in 1998. The opening recalls Pour Monsieur or Eau Sauvage: citrusy and fresh in the old style. Soon, a bouquet of florals takes over, the nervous system of the scent, highlighting ‘immortelle,’ a spicy, fleshy flower. The effect is astonishing. If you’ve ever walked past the walls of an old house with a garden in summer, you know that scent of vegetation and flowers in the breeze—sweet, warm, dreamy. That is Coriolan. The floral burst rests on a base of lovely patchouli and oakmoss, a masculine, earthy, and elegant way to close that summer dream. Its performance is classic: a discreet trail, very aura-like, but with superb longevity. This kind of creation touches my soul. Although its disappearance was announced, it feels like a catastrophe and a significant loss.

I have a bottle in perfect condition. Thanks to a friendly seller, I only waited four days to enjoy this perfume, which is very distinct and special. It’s not worth paying crazy prices for discontinued scents, but here I paid the same as for a Chanel. The Roman general Coriolanus was honored by Shakespeare, Beethoven, and Jean Paul Guerlain. It seems the character only inspired works doomed to go unnoticed, singing up and down. This masculine, herbal, and slightly dirty mix drives me crazy. Something went wrong, perhaps an unappealing campaign or the fact that in 1998 the average buyer wasn’t looking for something like this. I don’t think its fecal vibe would have fit a designer launch of that era. Despite this, it doesn’t seem old or outdated to me, just out of context. I think its target audience found better definition in earlier proposals. Personally, I see things that give it “modernity” compared to less heterodox chypres. I don’t recall others, though I’m not very familiar with this family of masculines, which tend to smell vintage. On the opening, it seems classic and kind, but it turns into something earthy and dirty; both facets clash. There are delicious notes I don’t know, giving it a precious character. I don’t know if it’s fennel, that oakmoss from another time, or coriander. The other day, the moment I put it on, I felt a great emotion. Now you remind me, friend. A fresh opening with an almondy, green, grassy, and petit grain blend, reminiscent of classic colognes, with a delicious bitterness that distinguishes it. To that green paraphernalia is added something indolic and irresistible, earthy, coming and going with woody, musky, and sensual notes. In the end, the lingering layer has a salty touch. A glorious vetiver also comes and goes with oriental sparkles. Later, the indolic airs soften with benzoin. I’d like more density and less air in that woody blend. As for performance, it’s disappointing: I sprayed it seven times and 10 hours later it’s still there, but very timid in trail and projection. I smell it, but people say they do too. Special mention to the bottle, super beautiful and comfortable, with lamentable usage instructions. I suspect my 50ml will be insufficient. That perfume I wanted to find. Edited 08/23/18: In a deleted review I said it reminded me of Eau du Soir. Now that this sealed bottle, aged 18 years, has aired, it has awakened a clear patchouli and other things. It reminds me of it, but Coriolanus is creamier and more docile, without juniper.

The real question is: do scents have an age? I don’t think so; they have an expiration date because they’re tied to fashion, which is fleeting. If we look past that, we see the true value of each creation. It’s a mistake to compare the beauty standards of the 50s with the 21st century. Many masterpieces never returned, crushed by trends. Coriolan was a commercial failure; it arrived with idealism into a world of softened, pretty perfumes. Jean-François Guerlain had the guts to create this timeless aroma, a liquid with melancholy in its DNA—the kind of scent mature men expressed at the end of the 20th century. We’ll never smell the deep floral beauty of Jean Patou Pour Homme or Chanel Pour Monsieur again, with their synthetic oakmoss notes; that perfume died on the edge of the most beautiful idealisms. Today, you can only find it in L’Âme d’Un Héros, also by Guerlain, at a high-end price. Coriolan doesn’t fit today’s aesthetic; few will buy it. You need it out of love for scents and history, to wrap yourself up and take a trip to the past, enjoying a beautiful Parisian sunset with a glass of wine. Coriolan by Guerlain. A shout-out to Cokechile’s excellent review, which perfectly defines this fragrance. It has a certain resemblance to Rochas Moustache.

I love this perfume because it’s not too strong on my skin. Even though it’s a men’s fragrance, I adore its scent, especially the lemon notes. The Guerlain line is among my favorites.

It’s one of those perfumes you either love or hate: sometimes it’s a beast, strong and intrusive, other times it becomes a soft body scent. It smells rich with great projection. I live where it gets hot: in autumn it hit 36°C, in summer it reaches 45°C and before that 50°C—a little hell. Ideal for men 35+. Top notes are a pleasant lemon, heart is a rich spicy blend, and the base features leather, vetiver, and patchouli.