Gentleman

Givenchy's 1974 Gentleman is a leather-bound manifesto from an era when masculinity didn't need to shout. Paul Léger constructed something gloriously conflicted here: tarragon's anisic bite colliding with cinnamon's warmth over a leather accord that smells of worn armchairs rather than biker jackets. The opening is sharp, almost medicinal, as tarragon dominates the citrus with its peculiar green ferocity—this isn't a polite aromatic. Within minutes, that aggression settles into something more considered as patchouli and orris root create a powdery, earthen foundation beneath roses that never smell romantic. There's a dustiness here, like opening a drawer in an old tailor's shop, where vetiver and sandalwood mingle with the ghosts of pipe tobacco.

This is a fragrance for someone who understands that refinement and roughness aren't opposites. The leather isn't aggressive; it's been broken in, softened by amber and musk until it becomes skin-like, almost intimate. The jasmine and rose prevent this from becoming a brutish leather bomb, but they're not here to pretty things up—they add complexity, a slight indolic edge that keeps the composition from becoming too comfortable. Gentleman speaks to the wearer who appreciates vintage tailoring, who knows that the best things improve with age and handling. It's not for the office, unless your office has mahogany panelling and crystal decanters. Evening wear, autumn afternoons, moments when you want to smell like you've lived a little. At over 50 years old, it remains quietly, insistently relevant.