Miroir des Envies by Thierry Mugler : Perfume Review

When the Thierry Mugler's Miroir Miroir collection finally launched I could hardly contain my excitement; having read the pre-launch buzz online I was prepared to love every single one of the fragrances with seductive names. I prayed that Dis-moi Miroir would be my thing, just so I could wear the fragrance bearing that name. (Do you ever get that? Unfortunately I do, often. The fragrance mostly turns out to be something I don't actually fall in love with, darn it. Such is the case with Le Besair du Dragon as well - surely the most beautiful name EVER given to a perfume. The juice, while attractive enough, is just not special enough for me to buy although god knows I try every now and again.) Anyway, back to the Miroir Miroir collection. As you have probably guessed by now, Dis-moi Miroir was decidedly not for me, in fact none of the perfumes were, hence the laaaate review, ages after the launch in fact. Most of the perfumes in the collection are loud, shrieking in fact. The fact that they are also mostly linear in nature adds insult to injury: This deadly combination - loud, bombastic nature and linear progression - make them appear like brainless bimbos (I'm so sorry Thiery), too much make-up, too little cerebration between the ears. Thankfully it's not all bad. One perfumes in particular, Miroir des Envies, stands out among the rest. This are still rather linear and quite loud as well, but it does bear a certain attraction that has made me return to my sample time and time again throughout the past year so today I am finally giving it a review.

Miroir des Envies (my favorite of the two, and yes, I fell for the one with the worst name out of the WHOLE collection. Wonderful.) is a bittersweet gourmand with an old-fashioned nature, completely unbefitting the current mainstream market, which if you know me, you know is not meant as a derision. In fact Miroir des Envies smells like an '80s perfume through and through which is a quite impressive feat considering it presents notes that weren't to be found on any perfume shelf in the actual decade itself. The opening is sueded and soft, presenting a gorgeous hazelnut note. This nutty impression is followed by a brief dash of cream. I would hesitate to say that these two beautiful notes disappear - for they actually don't - but unfortunately all too soon they are both overpowered by an emerging green note that seems quite dissonant. This greenness in turn brings with it a fresh impression. While my next remark is possibly misleading (for it ain't all that bad as it'll undoubtedly sound), it has to be said: this freshness is rather aqueous in nature, a salty freshness of almost marine quality. Such fresh notes have always troubled me personally, and are one of the reasons why I have not yet managed to take the plunge and spring for a bottle of Chanel's Allure Sensuelle. I bring this up right now for I think that while the two perfumes are nothing like each other in terms of smell, it can help illustrate what I mean with the dissonance I perceive here. As with Allure Sensuelle I am at a loss as to whether I should proclaim the combination of such dissonant notes as novel and genius or as cowardice - that is, why not commit to making a gourmand? Regardless, this whole conversation might be moot, for five minutes later (I jest not) everything has melded into one whole and the perfume proceeds in a linear fashion from there on. Fortunately, what you are left with cannot be called boring because it's so darn interesting. The salty freshness subsides enough for everything else to gain a voice and then it's all cuddly confidence, curves and sex-appeal. It is bittersweet and green and there's that sueded, bizarre softness in the background, like the green casing of a young, unripe almond. It is gourmand without being the least bit foody. It is sexy and daringly retro, unafraid to be different. It is definitely the most perfect miror of the Miroir Miroir collection. Most importantly perhaps, it is deeply unique.

Images: www.thierrymugler.com