Luxury is not about money: Casmir Chopard, or what did the director mean?
by Alex (Sane-Witch) Osipov
If there is a gun hanging on the wall in the first act, it must be fired before the end of the play. Have you heard this saying? It refers to a classic theatrical principle regarding both plot construction and set design: there should be no superfluous elements that deceive the audience's expectations. Each element must play its role—or, as we say in professional slang, be "justified."
On November 1, 1889, Anton Chekhov first articulated this in a letter to Aleksandr Lazarev-Gruzinsky:
"One must not put a loaded rifle on the stage if no one is thinking of firing it. You can't make promises."
The same applies to cinema: if a director places a perfume bottle in the frame, it must carry meaning. Of course, different genres employ different visual languages. Some directors work literally, focusing on the mundane, while others are symbolic; but ideally, no element in the frame is random. Context is vital—the "flavor" of an era, the nuances of a cultural environment, and even product placement all play significant roles. However, when the authors are postmodernists and intellectuals with a rich cultural background, an ironic view of their material, and meticulous attention to detail, an entire story can be extracted from a single frame.
Benedict Cumberbatch during filming of Sherlock. Fat Les (bellaphon) from London, UK derivative work: RanZagCC BY 2.0
Over the past decade, few British series have generated such a stir as Sherlock. Not only did it catapult Benedict Cumberbatch to the cinematic Olympus, but it also anticipated the rise of modern "cancel culture," occurring when an army of adoring fans rejected the showrunners' treatment of the hero in later seasons. While the infantilization of perception and cultural consumerism are fascinating markers of our current historical period, we will leave those behind the scenes for now.
Let us return to the second season, which introduced an antagonist as impressive as Jim Moriarty (played incomparably by Andrew Scott). Surprisingly, Sherlock did not do for Lara Pulver what it did for Cumberbatch, though she played the best Irene Adler in the history of Holmesiana. While there has never been a "bad" Irene—it is a juicy, expansive role for any actress—history has never seen an image so polished, iconic, and perfectly staged.
"The Woman" is so flawlessly executed that, despite technically being a secondary character, she immediately seizes center stage. Every detail of her image tells a multi-layered story. At the height of the show's popularity, fans meticulously analyzed the props: the brand of Sherlock’s shirts, why Moriarty wears Westwood, and why the detective's coat has a red buttonhole. Naturally, their inquisitive gaze did not miss Irene Adler’s perfume.
In the scene where Irene prepares for her first "battle" with Sherlock, two bottles are visible on her dressing table. The taller, distant bottle remains unidentifiable—perhaps a vintage piece—but the closer one is instantly recognizable: Casmir by Chopard.
Fans immediately protested: Why is Irene using this old stuff? Why would a woman of her means use an inexpensive perfume from twenty years ago? They argued it didn't suit her. However, let us look deeper. Let us try to penetrate the "creator's plans."
Casmir, created by Michel Almairac in 1992, is a sweet oriental defined by peach, custard, and patchouli. The peach is magnificent—juicy with a tart skin, reminiscent of the opening notes of Guerlain’s Mitsouko. The overtones feature mandarin and a hint of blackcurrant, presented as a dessert rather than raw fruit. It is fruit elegantly dusted with powdered sugar, garnishing a portion of custard—a rich egg cream with a generous dose of vanilla.
The spices here are not raw; they feel like a decoction for mulled wine. The fragrance is built on a patchouli base—slightly resinous, a bit prickly, and rounded with tonka beans. It feels beautiful, calm, and unpretentious—a piece of forgotten luxury. It is a "time pocket" of the 1990s: whatever fell into it remains preserved.
Despite my general dislike for gourmand scents, I admire this one. It lacks the "pastry dough" typical of the genre. As for the custard—especially in the form of crème brûlée—it is, as Miss Lane said in Lark Rise to Candleford, my "one weakness." It is amusing that the English claim authorship of this quintessentially French dessert, insisting it has been served as "burnt cream" at Trinity College since 1630.
Sweet gourmand scents are designed to offer peace and return the wearer to a state of cozy seclusion. In Casmir, the amber accord of vanilla and cinnamon accomplishes this, while the patchouli prevents it from becoming too infantile.
In fact, sweet gourmand scents are generally designed to offer a sense of peace—to comfort the soul and return the wearer to a state of childhood, a place of cozy seclusion and protection from the outer world. Of course, there are also those "sweet-toothed" enthusiasts who simply enjoy smelling edible. The amber accord of vanilla, cinnamon, and tonka in Casmir accomplishes this comforting task perfectly, while the patchouli base prevents the composition from slipping into excessive infantilism. On my skin, the scent remains cool, peachy, and surprisingly light; it never attempts to suffocate with dense "Oriental" heaviness—an offense for which we would hardly have remained friends.
Let us return to our ideal "control machine," Irene. As I have noted previously, there are several ways to "dress" a character in scent. One could create a photorealistic portrait, merely duplicating the image on screen: a cold, strong-willed, and self-assured "winter" beauty who maintains her majesty even in defeat. I can easily envision The Woman in Chanel No. 19 or Cristalle—fragrances defined by cruel galbanum, icy florals, and a dispassionate, mathematical development. They would be a perfect match. She would be no less magnificent in Cartier’s Carat, whose thawing spring freshness would serve as a mocking unison to her persona.
Yet, the creators chose Casmir. Why? In this instance, the scent does not provide the "text"—a redundant repetition that writers like Moffat and Gatiss would surely avoid. Instead, it provides the "subtext," granting her a hidden dimension and a secret history that only the most meticulous viewer would think to uncover from a golden bottle glinting in the frame.
From a social standpoint, Irene—who is clearly affluent—is far from an aristocrat; her environment and attire betray her. She is too thoughtfully and impeccably dressed, her accessories too overtly expensive, and her interior design too "designer." These are all markers of the nouveau riche: a woman who has ascended professionally on her own merits and chooses to flaunt it. The styling of the upper echelons is rarely so new, so meticulous—or so impersonal.
Through these choices, the showrunners established Irene as a parvenue while masterfully stripping her of a personal history. Her scrupulously crafted image masks her as effectively as the "battle dress" she wore to meet Sherlock. We don't know who she is or where she came from—and we never will.
Nevertheless, she wears a scent that is inexpensive and "outdated." Why? This is the subtext—one that may be sincere or part of a deeper game. Option one: a brilliant spy seeking to preserve a fragment of her youth, a sense of security, or a sentimental memory. Cozy and soft, Casmir grounds a woman living a dangerous life. Option two: a calculated tactical move. Irene knows that scent is a public signal. By projecting the "vulnerability" of a woman who craves comfort, she lures her opponent into an "illusion of intimacy," forcing them to reveal their own weaknesses.
Furthermore, her behavior and her scent create a vivid contrast between cold and hot; and as we know, contrasts on stage and screen are far more captivating than monochrome, uniform characters. We are dealing here not only with the actress Lara Pulver playing the role of Irene Adler, but also with the character Irene Adler (whose real name remains, of course, unknown to us), who consciously and deliberately plays the role of spy and dominatrix. She hides everything that is truly her from prying eyes. In other words, Casmir is not Irene; it is simply the second mask revealed when the first is removed—one "fake" Irene nested inside another.
Where is the real woman? Perhaps we will never know for sure.
Although... there is weight to that first theory. A third directorial possibility exists: considering Irene’s profession, she may choose a signature scent specifically for her clients—a fragrance her "sub" will instantly recognize. It must be, in a literal sense, seductive, cozy, and intoxicating, all of which Casmir possesses in abundance. I suspect that on skin hotter than mine, the scent may bloom into something thicker, stronger, and more carnal—rendering it even more appropriate for this particular area of "public relations."
But why should a Mistress smell of a gourmand oriental, you ask? Would it not be more appropriate to choose the icy Cristalle? The fact is that Irene is not a stereotypical mistress in latex. The only "professional" attire we see on screen is a black lace peignoir, and her only instrument is an innocent riding crop. It would seem that everything is quite "vanilla"; yet, there is no doubt that this woman possesses a formidable arsenal and is capable of providing a client with the full spectrum of experience even without it. The question is not about the tools—it is about the presentation.
Once again, we find contrast; once again, we discover hidden depth.
As the saying goes, the most dangerous Queen of Swords is not the one who turns your life into a living hell with a scowl, but the one who does so with a warm smile (noting, of course, that the warmer the Queen’s smile, the more feigned it truly is).
What the director truly intended remains a mystery to science, but with such rich material at our disposal, it is no sin to speculate. This is especially true given the tendency of the series' brilliant showrunners to saturate their narratives with hidden meanings and intricate allusions.
As the fans famously put it: "Thanks, Moffat."
This article features stills from the television series Sherlock, created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Luxury Is Not Money Alone
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