Othello 2016

Othello by Il Profvmo
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7.4 / 10     26 RatingsRatingsRatings
Othello is a perfume by Il Profvmo for men and was released in 2016. The scent is woody-spicy. It is being marketed by Valmont Group.
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Perfumer

Silvana Casoli

Fragrance Notes

Top Notes Top NotesMandarin orange zest, Sicilian lemon, Passion fruit
Heart Notes Heart NotesOmani frankincense, Queen-of-the-night, Patchouli, Silver birch
Base Notes Base NotesIvy, Oud, Rose honey

Ratings

Scent

7.4 (26 Ratings)

Longevity

7.2 (23 Ratings)

Sillage

6.8 (23 Ratings)

Bottle

7.1 (24 Ratings)
Submitted by OPomone, last update on 01.06.2020.
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Reviews

7.5
Scent
7
Longevity
7
Sillage
5
Bottle
Gold

470 Reviews
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Gold
Gold
Top Review    13  
...and it's not a drama
A perfumistic colossal painting like Verdi's opera is not this scent for me personally. I expected more passionate force, but at first I only got a tender sensation of light citrus, not an overstraining attack, but a conventionally looking introduction. Soon the composition becomes more exciting. Sage and vetiver. These two fit in well with the background already indicated, although from a stylistic point of view they do not, of course, represent a monumental pose that I would have expected from a perfume called Othello, but rather a calm, lyrical narrative.
Verdi's opera thrives on great contrasts: Passion versus tenderness, monumentality versus lyricism. This contrast is not recorded in the perfume.
Silvana Casoli's Othello is an excellent fragrance, but it lacks the wild substance that would make an Othello for my taste. Only the base I find a little more interesting than the rest with lots of incense, fine sprinkles of oudh, light honey. Everything stays neat and quiet, yes, beautiful! Unfortunately, no wildness or stylized malice is worked into the fragrance here either, because the line already hinted at in the top note is maintained. No tantrums, no waves of passion. No weapon, no resistance to Iago, the real bad guy in history! On stage, Othello chases a dagger into his own stomach in most productions.
The Othello perfume, on the other hand, is very unspectacular. It has no force, but seems to have been composed with the self-evident routine of an experienced perfumer. It is partly a little grey-in-grey. Although it is intelligently made, but somehow too little sinister or shocking.
Whether a perfume company would do well to olfactorily implement all classic operas is a question I often ask myself with creations like Othello. By starting off in such a cultivated conventional-classical way, the fragrance opens up a great height of fall. But in the further course this is not sufficiently used. As a black outsider, Othello is cleverly manipulated by Jago. You can't feel this tragedy in the scent.
Maybe a perfume can't even reflect the depth of the music. Maybe it shouldn't refer to Shakespeare or Verdi. Maybe it should just be No. 38. Or No. 3. Or somehow, somehow not so terribly programmatic.
8 Replies
9
Scent
9
Longevity
8
Sillage
9
Bottle
Torfdoen
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Torfdoen
Torfdoen
Very helpful Review    13  
Exotic Theatre
"A copper-green disc, magenta-red rimmed, burned for two minutes on the underside of my closed eyelids, and when I opened my eyes again,
the stars were in the sky." (from Brion Gysin, storm in the desert; Gasolin 23#8)

The mild night air leads on the railway bridge from the city into a sultry, thick bushy tropical world, whose increased oxygen content (and what else is in the air) one has to get used to. Cerebral vegetation that envelops you like a clean bed sheet and buries you forever. A cool breeze of sage looks fresh, like a melted ice cube in a glass, which a mercilessly radiating supernova made out on the chest of drawers the following morning. The thirst leaves some of the thick syrup at the bottom of the glass, only the electrified surface taps the liquid, the film of wonderfully invigorating alcohol, and is afraid of the tobacco crumbs and black remains that secrete the actual aroma. Meanwhile the flies look at the fruits of the gods and thickened lemons. Circle fucking around a sliced honeydew melon. The bed sheet is the only protection against unpleasant waking dreams.

An Arab civilian employee with a date dust flag puts me under hotel arrest.
I'm black myself, raised in Italy. My Arabic, however, is more than fragile. With a little money, I can give this guy a leg up. He understands that.
On the way to the market place old men crouching in door closets give me their pomegranate smile.
Among all the strange sounds and songs, I suddenly hear some number from Fats Domino and argue to reconcile with a camel trader who gets angry when I try to hug him. The surprising arrival of a man wrapped for metres in a turban, veil and flowing robe puts an abrupt end to the whole thing. A pair of black eyes, the most hateful eyes I have ever seen, stares out of this enormous bundle of linen when he is told I am black, but Christian.

A bunch of kids are driving me through sandy alleys down to the harbour. "Mon Signor, your ship is ready to sail." My visa had been annulled and I was to return to Italy. The thought of returning home soon makes me shudder. Then I am granted a view of the ship.
At the pier there is a wreck of rotten wood and iron in the mirror-smooth bay. The shore divides the sky into a purple twilight on the sides of the city and a wave of blue darkness over the sea, crossed by flickering light images for fractions of a second. "There'll be a storm soon," someone says casually.

When I see the name on the old barge, I ask the bystanders to help me to unlock it and finally set sail. The eternal flight into the positive. Not worth a look. The foaming of the sea and a name on my lips, I remember a dream of dead people who never died. High up on deck, more on the back of a racing camel before the wind, because a rickety sailboat, I sit and watch until everything collapses into a certainty and I sink back into the rumpled night sheet reality, accompanied by the everlasting breath of a taming orange, a vague feeling of thirst and the moonlight of the empty glass on the chest of drawers. The unsteady stuttering of butterflies that have gone mad saved me once again from unpleasant waking dreams.

7 Replies

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