Le Lion de Chanel
Chanel (2020)

In the shadow of Shalimar.

There is a lazy way to talk about Le Lion: it is Chanel’s answer to—or even a copy of—Guerlain’s Shalimar (1925). But bracket the near century of design space between them while I attempt a more nuanced (if ultimately atavistic) consideration.

The bergamot-to-animal-balsam-and-vanilla spine of both perfumes is structurally identical. This architecture is not revolutionary. What Le Lion revolutionizes is the material weight it puts on that structure.

Shalimar eroticizes memory: the tension of sour and sweet, a dialectic of bright lemon and warm vanilla. Nearly the oldest trick in the book. Is it even possible any longer to use that dyad in creative ways? Le Lion attempts something stranger by suffocating the dialectic.

It's worth noting that if Shalimar is foundational eros, we should remember that it already has a structurally conservative copy within its own family: Habit Rouge. Shalimar “for men.” Powder reduced, leather amplified, citrus sharpened for the discerning dandy. If one wants to cry thief, look no further than this younger brother.

After the ceremony of Chanel-inflected bergamot and lemon—hard to do it better, the flash of light across the surface of the world—something darker begins to upwell beneath it. No smoke yet. Nothing sweet. Just sticky tar: the sooty vanillic leather of labdanum in overdose. Most ambers treat labdanum judiciously, as the base thread in a tapestry, revealing itself only after the surface weft is unwoven. But Le Lion lays it on thick and quick so that immediately you recognize the pressurized bitumen beneath it all—the fossilizing resin waiting to break free. Labdanum here becomes geology—sunlight compressed, held captive to memory. And this is very strange for Chanel: to make what is essentially a paleolithic perfume.

And that is what I think is brilliant about Le Lion: I do not think the eponymous lion is even alive—in fact, it is extinct. I think it was a Smilodon in pursuit—enthralled by that lemon glint off what it assumed was terra firma—that bounded confidently across the dark sheen off the ground, only to be caught and entrapped by tar, sunk and preserved for eternity in the sludge.

Six hours into the wear, a final and incredible thing happens. Homo sapiens arrive. They keep their distance from the tar pits and ignite their cookfires. Dry woodsmoke rises. The musk of their bodies warms the hides they wear as garments. Something vanillic and sweet drifts through the smoke like toasted marshmallow. Who knew marshmallows had such a deep history?

Strangely, I also find a close structural resemblance to a much more vulgar and popular perfume by Maison Martin Margiela: By the Fireplace (2015). Le Lion lacks the overt gourmand sweetness (absolutely no chestnut or cocoa here), but the patchouli-vanillic campfire drydown arrives at a similar endpoint.

There are alternate universes where comic Chanel calls this perfume Le Labdanum. But that would fail to do the necessary work of primitivizing the composition—taking it to its most rudimentary, brutally elegant state.

For me the top notes closely resemble Shalimar. A slightly muted and dustier version. It then swiftly moves through to the labdanum which I love, and dries down to freshly printed newspaper on a background of vanilla. I find it beautiful. Sillage is good, longevity mediocre.

The scent didn't give me anything that I could associate with a lion. Instead, the very well-rounded, smoky rosin scent gives me a feeling of a painter's fingers -- also, those fingers had cigarettes in between for creative inspiration before he entered his small studio. I have no idea where this imagination came from, but this is what I feel throughout the entire day while I am wearing this scent.

Additionally, I didn't find the scent aggressive at all, as many other reviewers mentioned; however, I do understand why the comments are very polarized.

If you have ever worked with oil painting products and find the scent nostalgic, or if you are a wine drinker who likes retsina wine, you might appreciate this scent.

I understand this is a very subjective review. But isn't this exactly the beauty of scents - we all associate with them so differently, in our very personal way.

In terms of longevity -- oh boy. I accidentally put my sunglasses and the test strip together overnight, my sunglasses smell like Le Lion for 1 week...

Olivier Polge proved he's a sorcerer with this creation.

There are certainly no shortages of vanillic spicy ambers on our retail perfume shelves, and it's been that way for a very long time. They're everywhere, like a termite infestation living off wood. In 2020 for the Middle East, and then in 2021 for the rest of the world - which gives you a huge clue as to what this perfume is supposed be about - Chanel decided we need another one. I suppose I cannot begrudge a large firm like Chanel for wanting a slice of the mass-popularity pie, or in this case the habibi pie to start. After all, they are a business that constantly seeks to improve their bottom line. Still, you hope a haute couture house known for its unique high-end fashion and perfumes going-on for more than a century might have the balls to say "no, this type of perfumery is not us." Well, they didn't, obviously - they wanted to submit their contender to compete with the LVMH and Lauder conglomerates in a race to the bottom of the Arabian market and then the apathetic segment of the Anglo-Euro market, or so I pessimistically thought. Curiously though, they've already done this with Bleu; they already make a terrible masculine woody amber thing, so why make another? Sign number one that Le Lion is supposed to play in a different league to Bleu and Sauvage and the like, and maybe even in a superior league to Habit Rouge Parfum flankers (or Habibi Rouge Parfum, more accurately, thank you, Persolaise). Why they didn't just improve Bleu with a high-end flanker - a task with a lot of runway - is unknown, but perhaps it's because they wanted a perfume that bore no relation at all to their money rake. Did they accomplish it? Fortunately, for us perfume enthusiasts, it's a yes. Chanel keeps our confidence by delivering a vanillic, spicy amber that meets all of the necessary criteria we enthusiasts need in order to say Le Lion is a proper Chanel perfume. It opens with a lemon citrus accord - ugh, ok, fine, I get it, follow the template, blah blah blah, and that's sort of what the opening feels like: derivative. The citrus opening honestly does not work particularly well here. It's a bit too piquant and a bit too sour, maybe too synthetic, and sort of clashes with what immediately starts happening with the fragrance. Before the sour citrus accord dries down, I got a sort of milky and lactonic backdrop that definitely piqued my curiosity. It's such a subtle yet beautiful note that I found myself trying to ignore the scratchy sandpaper-texture citrus and focus on that lactonic note. What happens next, and again fairly quickly, and again following a template, are heart notes of labdanum and amber all nestled on a base of vanilla, patchouli, sandalwood, and musk. Was it the sandalwood I was smelling that gave the sort of milky quality? Excellent quality synthetic sandalwoods can do that, but more than likely it was the combination of labdanum and amber. As this perfume develops the lemon top note feels more out of place, but it's exited the stage and you are content to forget about it and take-in what, after about an hour or more, is its primary character. This perfume blooms and grows before your very nose. Upon application it felt quite mild and understated, but no longer. It's sweet and spicy, incensey and earthy, vanillic, and woody. It's warming and playful, muscularly thick and stocky but never descending into fat, sugary, impenetrable or bulbous territories, always remaining nimble on its feet and diffusive without being dry or aloof. It has strength and confidence but never loses that elegance and chic that we know, love, and want from a proper Chanel perfume. I cannot help but think of Shalimar, and newer versions of Habit Rouge (not as good), while smelling Le Lion. The similarities are uncanny; the bergamot/lemon opening is the same, although Guerlain does it much better, and the spicy oriental amber accords that are the template for this genre and were - for all intents and purposes - introduced to Western modern perfumery by Guerlain, are virtually the same if only given the Chanel-chic twist. There also seems to be considerable overlap with Coromandel, particularly with the patchouli and vanilla driven base. So, I guess I'm back to my original question: do we need this perfume? The answer is simply no. Chanel probably figured they needed Le Lion to make Arabian inroads, but that is different from the rest of us consumers saying we need it. I suppose it did very well in the Middle Eastern market, to the point where Chanel said let's make some money globally, and that was probably about the end of the discussion. For you, dear reader and fellow perfume enthusiast, if for some reason you don't want Shalimar, a modern Habit Rouge flanker, or even Coromandel for that matter, then buy this. As a whole, it is a very good perfume - please don't mistake my words for negative criticism or pessimism. It is far too easy to find perfumes that follow this template that are terrible, and so let us be thankful that, once again, Chanel casts its soft, warming, elegant, and chic light into the darkness to help us find the way to a beautiful example of the populous and overworked amber genre.

I have wanted this for quite a while now, waiting for a price drop..... forget it, this is Chanel.
Had to just get it, regardless of the price.

Do I think it is worth it, well I have to feel the parfum in this price bracket has to be really special, so for me it is worth the price, love it.


Old school, very masculine leaning.
I dont feel I would get any others from the exclusives collection, so that says everything to me.




Overall 9- 10
Performance 9.2- 10
Silage 7.9- 10


Fine French perfumery