Jules by Christian Dior, launched in 1980, was more than a new men’s fragrance — it was a statement of modern masculinity. Its name alone set it apart: “Jules,” pronounced zhool, is a French masculine given name, but more significantly, it functions in French slang as a term of endearment for “my man.” When a Frenchwoman says mon Jules, she’s speaking of her lover, her partner, her man of style and charm. The choice of this word — not overtly macho, but quietly confident and intimately familiar — gave the fragrance immediate personality. It evoked the image of a man who is desirable, independent, and effortlessly elegant. Jules wasn’t just a name. It was an identity.
Dior presented Jules as the scent for a new kind of man — one who defies convention, who isn’t content with the status quo. This was a man in pursuit of experience, of sensuality, of something different. A man who, in the words of the original ad campaign, “does what he wants to do.” Jules was created as a bolder, more assertively masculine counterpoint to the house’s earlier men’s fragrance, Eau Sauvage (1966). If Eau Sauvage was the polished French classic, Jules was its sportier, more rugged cousin — not wild, but worldly. Confident. Adventurous. Sensual.
The Jean Martel composed fragrance itself is classified as a woody fougère, but it breaks away from tradition by embracing leather, spice, and musky heat in more assertive proportions. The opening is green and herbaceous, a sharp and invigorating burst that evokes the scent of crushed leaves underfoot on a countryside walk. There’s a bracing freshness here — like the snap of clary sage, tarragon, or parsley — paired with peppery brightness and a touch of bitterness. It’s brisk and energizing, like a morning breeze off the coast.
