Attaquer le Soleil Marquis de Sade

It is sometimes rather disheartening to see how readily some of us surrender our critical faculties in exchange for marketing-driven intellectual shortcuts. If you are unfamiliar with this fragrance, I would strongly recommend disregarding reviews that dwell on the alleged perversity of Attaquer le Soleil. I have read so much nonsense about this perfume that I feel compelled to correct what seems worth addressing. The key olfactory element here is cistus resin, better known as labdanum. There may also be notes of amber (labdanum itself is often regarded as a vegetal amber) and vanilla that are not explicitly listed by the brand, though I cannot say whether this is actually the case. I live in Southwestern France, where countless varieties of cistus adorn our coastal parks and grow along country paths. I frequently gather sprigs of it, as it is a scent I am particularly fond of. To me, the smell of cistus resembles a polygon, possessing a multitude of facets within itself. What appeals to me most is what I can only describe as a "dog's coat" quality—an animalic aspect, for the sake of clarity, though not an organic one. Rather, it is a kind of living resinousness: the scent of a dog's fur after it has rolled through grass or emerged from the water. I often wondered how such a scent might come alive on warm skin. My first sprays of Attaquer le Soleil, tested cold on paper, were nothing short of transcendent. The labdanum is unmistakably present, yet enriched from every angle. I smell the scent of a blazing furnace, resinous pines, and a mystical dimension I never expected to encounter. The brand invokes the Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin in relation to Ghost in the Shell, but I would sooner associate his name with Attaquer le Soleil. Speaking of his love for God, Teilhard once wrote that his own heart was a furnace. That is precisely the energy I felt upon discovering this release. When I eventually wore the fragrance on skin during cooler weather, I found it surprisingly easy to wear. It immediately struck me that I could perfectly imagine Columbo wearing this scent, moving from case to case in a world that no longer resembles our own—a world where people kill for beautiful diamonds, yet still speak to one another and exist as part of a collective whole. After a few hours, the drydown becomes, when compared directly to freshly cut cistus branches in hand, virtually identical to the smell of the plant itself. It is here that I rediscover that beloved animalic facet. You will read here and there online that Attaquer le Soleil smells nothing like cistus. Allow me to suggest that such people are far too certain of themselves, as is so often the case with foolishness. It is entirely possible that the varieties of cistus growing around them are simply different from those found where I live. Some species possess a much greener, more herbaceous profile than Cistus ladanifer. Unfortunately, France has been plagued by relentless heatwaves since May, and I regret to report that Attaquer le Soleil quickly becomes cumbersome in intense heat. I wore it during a walk through town on a particularly hot day and found myself uncomfortable. On warm skin, its fiery character becomes too pronounced, too invasive. I would also note that I recommend applying this fragrance with no more than one or two sprays, and certainly not directly onto the body's pulse points. Ultimately, I believe this fragrance flourishes best in spiritual settings—or at least in situations where consensus and seduction are not the primary objectives. Finally, I find the choice of the Marquis de Sade somewhat unfair. Did ELDO choose Sade's name because only those indifferent to the opinions of others could wear this fragrance without hesitation? Perhaps. Yet I believe cistus—and this creation in particular—deserves better than to be reduced to an archetypal symbol of perversion. One only has to read the comments to see the consequences: countless misplaced and irrelevant opinions invoking little more than a caricatured notion of sadism. I could just as easily have named this fragrance God's Paw, Burning Mediterranean, or Furnace. Less provocative, perhaps, but infinitely clearer. More importantly, it would spare the Mediterranean heritage embodied by cistus from being tarnished by groups of young thirty-somethings who, at the mere mention of this creation, seem intent on reducing it to a collection of tired clichés. This will likely be the most irritated review I have ever written, and for that I sincerely apologize. Yet if Cistus ladanifer, or one of its close relatives, captivates you in its raw form as much as it captivates me, then I urge you to give this fragrance a chance. Set aside the narrative that surrounds it, and you too may find yourself struck by its beauty like a bolt from the blue.

Attaquer le Soleil creeps up on you. There’s something unsettling about it: an enigmatic, gothic atmosphere that’s both threatening and enticing, and it keeps me coming back for more. I saw someone else describe it as “liminal,” which feels accurate: imagine a disquieting dream in which you’re about to discover something secret and dangerous. The dark, coniferous woody opening transports me to an aristocratic alpine chalet enclosed by black trees. I wake alone at night. Called by some obscure premonition of pleasure, I venture out to explore the cold, candlelit hallway, walls panelled in polished ebony, until I come upon a dim study—a cabinet of curiosities stuffed with leatherbound books, strange insects encased in amber, and exotic devices of unknown purpose. Open on the desk is a massive antique volume with gilt edges, not meant for my eyes. Is it obscene pornography, an occult spell book, or a diary of monstrous crimes? My nose fills with the intoxicating fragrance of resinous incense as the fear mounts, undercut with a faint, powdery bitterness (camphor?). Do I hear footsteps in the hall? I try to peer closer at the forbidden book, catching a glimpse of illustrations of twisted bodies, but someone (or something) is drawing closer. I turn...and wake up. (All this is perhaps more seductive than it sounds.) Curiously, the only listed note for this fragrance is labdanum—supposedly it was a challenge that perfumer Quentin Bisch set for himself to make something focusing solely on a note/material that he dislikes. I don’t have a detailed sense of what labdanum is supposed to smell like, other than it’s a sweet, musky resin often used in incense—I associate it with CDG's trademark clean-incense base (as used in CDG Original, Blackpepper, and many others), which I sometimes find soapy or powdery. I’m sure there are a lot of things going on in Attaquer le Soleil other than pure cistus resin, but I really like how it seems to pull out so many different facets of the material: it’s a little smoky and woody, a little bit clean and powdery, a little bit musky and animalic (it smells very embodied, like skin), very resinous in a sweet, enveloping way, but cold and slightly bitter at the same time. It’s this interplay that keeps me sniffing myself over and over! Some people have written that this is too wearable for a Sadean perfume, but I find that there is something vaguely perverse about it, though it doesn't at all veer into smells that are overtly off-putting. It's a really excellent winter fragrance, especially for lovers of woody, leathery incense scents, or anyone who wants a non-churchy incense (it's definitely unholy). Incidentally, I first tried this right before trying Apoteker Tepe’s The Holy Mountain, and they have a lot of similarities: they’re both coniferously woody on first sniff before easing into an incense-heavy amber finish. The latter initially made a bigger impression—it’s showier, with a massive smoky opening and a glorious golden drydown—but Attaquer le Soleil has really grown on me. It's subtly dark and weird in a very addictive (but not overpowering) way that's led it to become one my most-worn cold-weather scents, quickly becoming an overall favourite. Moderate projection and good longevity, fwiw.

*UPDATE* It’s funny, after writing this review every wearing of Marquis De Sade I notice something different. One day I think it smells like a bonfire in a secluded woodland off the beaten path, like you wandered a little too deep into the trees and seen something you shouldn’t have. The next day I wear it I get a more coniferous tinge, but with a subtle, metallic, fresh sweat scent; like the smell of intense sex bringing on a cold sweat, intermingling with the pine trees and oozing resin sap in this pagan woodland. Another night I noticed spiced fruits, like mulled wine and berries. Either there is more than one note in here or Labdanum is a truly complex ingredient. Read Dex1901’s review on this perfume. I’m not sure if it was intentional, but they described the perfect liminal-space scent. The mixture of the old storage room, cellotape, dusty boxes, photocopying paper and printer ink; but there is something wrong. You smell smoke and wet fur, and there is a trail of muddy pine needles leading to the slightly opened door at the end of the room that you did not notice at first - or was it even there before? You shuffle past the boxes, shelves, paper on the floor, trying to get to the door, but for as long as you move past the debris, the door isn’t any closer. A faint whisper echoes from the steps down of this door into darkness - asking you to come closer. This is what I smell when I spray Marquis De Sade. Not really fitting to the name, but Dex1901’s review is spot on to me. It reminds me of an old wooden chapel found in the middle of nowhere. There is something religious or biblical in this and I can’t figure out what. Maybe that feeds into the whole liminal space vibe I get when smelling this perfume, like a regular dream that has one glaring oddity, something off but you can’t put your finger on it, and when your curiosity has bested you, you dig at the roots, only to find the dream has changed into a nightmare. If I were to match the vibe of an album to this fragrance, it would be Knocked Loose’s You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed to - it has a real A24 horror feeling to it. The game Outlast II also fits this perfume, with that whole Catholic school / midwestern religious gothic horror aesthetic. TLDR; smoky, slightly fruity resin, dry amber with a conifer/pine note on the tail end, and something animalic/cold sweat-like.

It is of my belief, as someone who owns a small sample bottle of this, and as someone who is thoroughly fascinated by this perfume, that it ages in a way similar to wine? I first purchased my small sample bottle quite some time ago, and I first smelled it the day it arrived at my front door. I was hit with pine. Like pine sap on your fingers after climbing around Ina pine tree pine. And I know pine, my hometown is half pine trees and half white supremacists. You can guess where my time was spent. Anyways, after moving a town over and having a whirlwind summer, I rediscovered the small bottle and decided on a whim to give it a smell again. The pine remained, but it was no longer single note. This incense-y undertone was the most developed, it reminded me of this old pine church that used to be used by the old loggers of my hometown as a place of worship. Now its a part of my local state park as a historical site, but the pine and incense smells still remain in the buildso. The second note is vanilla. Its faint, like tasting a hint of vanilla on your wine glass after a beautiful woman wearing a vanilla chapstick gives it a sip. The third and most distracting is the note of leather. It is leather, pure and simple. Like a leather whip. All in all, it reminds me of this encounter I had with this vampire couple a few towns over. They needed a 3rd to feed on and took me to their home. This happened to be an old church, similar to the one in the state park, but renovated of course. The basement was this sex dungeon wine cellar combo, and now whenever I smell this perfume all I can think of is that beautiful vampire woman whipping my back to shreds while her husband whipped my bottom. I don't understand where some folks are getting ball sweat and olive from. If you like pine and you are willing to allow this to age for a time to develop, then I would highly recommend. If you are a prude, perhaps try someone else? I'm unsure of the prudish lifestyle and cannot speak for your wants, however for me this is distractingly horny.

Attaquer le Soleil was one of the most surprising colognes I have ever encountered. It was 2019, and I happened to be in Portsmouth, New Hampshire—one of America’s most underrated tourist destinations. The town is the epitome of quintessential colonial New England, so picturesque it could easily be mistaken for a European city. While there, I visited an exceptional fragrance shop called Pickwick’s Mercantile, a place that looks as though it was lifted straight out of Harry Potter. The staff are remarkably knowledgeable, expertly guiding customers through hundreds of fragrances. Among them all, this one immediately stood out. Smelling it felt like catching a glimpse of a past life in the 1700s. It instantly conjured images of powdered wigs, Rococo ballrooms, candlelit salons, and refined social gatherings accompanied by harpsichords. Imagine rural England or France in that era—that’s the atmosphere it captures, anchored by a rich, resinous labdanum note. Despite its historical soul, the fragrance feels unmistakably modern. It never comes across as dated; instead, it is refined, elegant, and timeless. I sprayed a sample before heading to the cinema to see The Favourite, starring Olivia Colman, and the pairing felt uncannily perfect. By the end of the night, I knew I had to return and purchase a bottle. To me, Attaquer le Soleil shines best from winter into early spring. In fact, it evokes early springtime itself—something about it feels reminiscent of the Easter season, where history, renewal, and quiet grandeur meet.