Word: guerlain
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France's top perfume makers-Chanel, Guerlain, Lanvin, Caron and Dior -have long skillfully employed this art to keep themselves fragrantly prosperous, but it has also been used with remarkable success by a relative newcomer to the ranks of the leaders. The newcomer is the house of Marcel Rochas, where le president is Mme. Helene Rochas, who took over the company when her husband died in 1955. Since then she has increased Rochas's busi ness tenfold, turning it into one of the six largest perfume makers in France; its turnover last year...
Some time back, when sobersided Britons belabored Author Ian Fleming for the consumer snobbery of his caddish hero (James Bond's car is a Bentley, his girls invariably smell of Guerlain), Fleming was unrepentant. He was sorry, he said, only for having once permitted Bond the unforgivable gaffe of ordering asparagus with bearnaise instead of mousseline sauce. But in Fleming's latest Bond bombshell, there are disquieting signs that he took the critics to heart. On page 152, sophisticated Secret Agent 007 cozies up to a blonde who smells of nothing more aristocratic than Mennen's baby...
...lady is a countess named Tracy She drives like Stirling Moss and reeks of Guerlain. So far so good. But -horrors-she sometimes sounds like Debbie Reynolds. Gushes Tracy to Bond: "I've got enough sheets and pillows for two and other exciting things to do with being married." The old Bond would ordinarily give this kind of chatter some suavely short shrift. The new Bond revels in it. "Togetherness," he reflects sententiously. "What a curiously valid clich...
Died. Jacques Guerlain, 88, longtime co-director (with his late brother Pierre) of Maison Guerlain, a leisure-time collector of French impressionists, who in the family tradition personally oversaw the development of all new perfumes, among them such best-sellers as L'Heure Bleue. Mitsouko. Shalimar; after a long illness; in Paris...
Bath Cubes by Guerlain. But the critics sound as if they might be kinder to Bond's non-U. penchant for drop-kicking the men and devil-dealing the ladies if he were not such a dandy among the consumer goods, a slave to "crude snob-cravings." The monocle glitters over the private-eyeful afforded by Agent Bond. He smokes Macedonian cigarettes marked with three gold rings. He drinks Dom Perignon champagne, drives a Bentley. At Blades, a posh St. James's Street club that he frequents, "no newspaper comes to the reading room before it has been...