By the time Revlon introduced Scoundrel in 1980, the company was already a commanding force in the fragrance market. Charlie, launched in 1973, had become an extraordinary commercial success, with sales exceeding $80 million and a period of leadership as the world’s best-selling perfume. Revlon had followed it in 1975 with Jontue, a softer, more romantic companion fragrance that rose to the No. 2 sales position. Yet that success created a problem of its own. Charlie was beginning to be regarded by the trade as a “mature brand”—still successful, but unlikely to produce the explosive future growth of its early years—while observers expected Jontue’s rapid expansion to level off as well. Revlon needed another major fragrance, not to replace either success, but to extend its reach into the changing lives of the women who had made them famous.
Charlie had captured the spirit of the newly independent, mobile young woman: stylish, active, self-supporting, and, in the advertising imagination, about twenty-seven. Its campaign sold an image and a lifestyle more than it sold a narrowly defined demographic. Jontue represented her more romantic sister—softer, more conventional, and more traditionally feminine. By 1980, however, the women who had embraced Charlie in the 1970s were older, more established, and often more prosperous. The baby-boom generation was aging, women’s roles were visibly changing, and Revlon saw an opportunity to celebrate maturity not as an aftermath of youth, but as a new form of power.
Scoundrel was conceived as the next chapter in the Charlie woman’s story. She was older, self-confident, sophisticated, and self-made: a woman with a career, a social life, and the means to indulge herself. Where Charlie suggested youthful independence and Jontue offered romance, Scoundrel emphasized nighttime elegance, accomplished femininity, and unapologetic appetite. She might want a man, but she did not need one; she might enjoy luxury, but she had earned it herself. Revlon positioned the fragrance for women in their thirties and forties who had moved beyond aspiration and into authority.
Bonnie Clark, a Revlon vice president at the time, described the intended customer as a woman “past the aspiration stage”—someone who had reached one level of success and fully expected to attain another. Naturally, she had more money to spend on herself. Scoundrel was priced accordingly, at roughly ten percent above the Charlie line: two ounces of cologne sold for about $8, while a half-ounce of parfum retailed for approximately $45. The pricing, packaging, and advertising all signaled that this was a more polished, luxurious proposition. Its distinctive swirled bottle, developed in-house, made the perfume look as theatrical and elegant as the woman Revlon imagined wearing it.
Paul P. Woolard, Revlon’s president in 1980 and a longtime associate of company founder Charles Revson, explained that the strategy was one of deliberate segmentation. Revlon wanted to address either separate portions of the overall fragrance market or different facets of the same woman’s life, without “stepping all over Charlie.” The company reportedly invested many millions in Scoundrel’s creation, research, packaging, advertising, and initial distribution. It was not a casual addition to the line, but a carefully financed attempt to create another enduring Revlon fragrance personality.
Creative merchandising manager Sharon Ann Queeny described the Scoundrel woman as provocative, ambitious, passionate, impish, and unpredictable—a woman who could be deeply feminine while projecting accomplishment and positive self-regard. Revlon’s language was unmistakably of the new decade: this was a “woman of the ’80s,” multifaceted rather than easily categorized. She might wear a designer suit one day and faded jeans the next; she could love the verdant darkness of old woods, yet need the clamor of taxi horns to nourish her senses. She was urban, Revlon suggested, even if she lived in the country, because urbanity was a state of mind.
The publicity copy transformed Scoundrel into a character as much as a perfume. She was magnetic, witty, inventive, outspoken, and disarming; a raised eyebrow followed by a mischievous grin. She reveled in challenge because she knew she would emerge the winner. Her boundaries were “secret, silent, subtle,” and she moved through life with what Revlon called full-blown luminosity—leaving an impression, a little havoc, and a trail of unforgettable moments. This was not rebellion for its own sake. It was glamour with intelligence, sensuality with nerve, and independence expressed as personal style.
Revlon invoked a lineage of formidable women to explain the name: Scarlett O’Hara, Queen Elizabeth I, Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie Langtry, and, with a contemporary flourish, Bette Midler. In this sense, a Scoundrel was not a villain but a woman too lively, accomplished, seductive, or strong-willed to be contained by conventional expectations. Men might be present in her life, but they did not own her, complete her, or define her. Joan Collins, with her polished glamour, commanding gaze, black gown, and diamonds, became the ideal embodiment of that fantasy. Scoundrel was therefore offered as more than scent: it was an invitation to arrive brilliantly, take up space, and make one’s own rules.
The Name:
Revlon chose Scoundrel because it was not a safe name—and that was precisely its value. In ordinary English, a scoundrel is a rogue: someone mischievous, unscrupulous, charmingly lawless, or delightfully unreliable. It can carry a genuinely negative meaning, suggesting a person who cannot quite be trusted; yet in its lighter, more theatrical sense, it describes a charismatic rule-breaker whose audacity is part of the attraction. The word is English, first appearing in the late sixteenth century, although its deeper linguistic origin is uncertain. It is pronounced “SKOWN-drul,” with the first syllable rhyming with “down.”
For a conventional women’s fragrance, Scoundrel was a startling choice. It was masculine in form, morally ambiguous, and deliberately provocative—much riskier than a name suggesting flowers, romance, or beauty. Revlon explored alternatives such as Rogue and Maverick, but found them too hard-edged; Scoundrelle was considered, then rejected as too cute. Scoundrel alone had the needed tension. It sounded elegant but unruly, sophisticated but mischievous, and it allowed Revlon to turn a supposedly disreputable word into a badge of female vitality and confidence.
The name took two years to find, reflecting the extraordinary care Revlon devoted to naming a major perfume. The project was reportedly kept secret under the code name “Crawford,” a discreet nod to Joan Collins, who would become the fragrance’s public face. Revlon’s interest in the name was so guarded that an intermediary initially approached Seymour Shapiro, who held rights to Scoundrel, on behalf of an “unidentified client.” The first offer was $1,000; after repeated negotiations, Shapiro ultimately granted Revlon limited use of the name for $32,000.
Shapiro had already discovered the word’s commercial force two decades earlier. Preparing to launch a men’s cologne around 1959, he asked his associate, George “Yank” Price, to suggest a name. When “Rascal” was proposed, Price reportedly replied, “You’re too old to be a rascal. You’re a scoundrel!” The phrase had exactly the right mixture of maturity, wit, and wickedness. Shapiro protected the name and used it for both his cologne venture and his Sero shirt business, making Revlon’s later acquisition necessary.
For women in 1980, Scoundrel transformed a masculine insult into an image of glamorous self-possession. It suggested a woman who might raise an eyebrow, ignore a warning, and proceed exactly as she pleased—not because she lacked judgment, but because she possessed enough confidence to make her own rules. The name evoked black evening dresses, diamonds, champagne, fireplaces, city lights, complicated romances, and a woman who entered a room knowing that all eyes would turn toward her. It promised not innocence, but experience; not obedience, but style.
Revlon’s advertising made clear that its Scoundrel was neither a villain nor a victim. She was witty, worldly, provocative, and self-made: a woman who had already arrived and had no need to explain herself. The company linked her to women such as Scarlett O’Hara, Queen Elizabeth I, Sarah Bernhardt, Lillie Langtry, and Bette Midler—figures remembered for presence, ambition, theatricality, and an ability to command attention. In that spirit, Scoundrel became a perfume name for the mature woman who could be feminine, sensual, accomplished, and slightly dangerous all at once. As Revlon’s Sandy Tregellas later put it, the name was simply “in the spirit and style of the women who use it.”
Making the Scent:
Scoundrel arrived in 1980 at a hinge moment: the final afterglow of the 1970s was giving way to the high-gloss, ambitious culture of the 1980s. The previous decade had normalized a more independent public identity for women, while the new decade would increasingly celebrate visible achievement, career authority, wealth, physical glamour, and personal spectacle. This was the beginning of the era later associated with power dressing, designer labels, big hair, dramatic jewelry, sculpted makeup, and the conviction that success should be seen as well as earned. In fashion, women moved easily between tailored suits with emphatic shoulders and sleek, body-conscious eveningwear; Scoundrel’s black gown, diamonds, and Joan Collins glamour made it an ideal perfume for that emerging visual language.
Revlon’s market research was unusually extensive. Rather than simply selecting a finished composition from an independent laboratory, the company worked with an outside perfumer while developing roughly one thousand variations of its own central idea. The fragrance was tested on skin rather than only on paper blotters, reportedly with a sample of 50,000 people. That process revealed a telling divide: younger women often found Scoundrel “too heavy,” while Revlon’s intended customer—the established woman over thirty, particularly the potential female executive—found its richness exactly right. The perfume was meant to have presence, endurance, and a certain authority; it was not designed to disappear politely.
Sharon Ann Queeny described Scoundrel as uncategorizable: floral, fruity, and oriental, “very eclectic.” Its published description supports that impression. A green-fruity opening, with the aromatic bitterness of artemisia and the dry, coniferous coolness of cypress, would give the scent a brisk and faintly austere beginning rather than a simple burst of sweetness. Hyacinth would contribute a watery, green, almost metallic floral freshness; mimosa would soften it with a golden, pollen-like fluffiness; jasmine would bring a warmer, more sensuous floral glow. The effect was intended to be zesty and alive, but also composed—freshness with a dark, sophisticated edge.
In scent, the name Scoundrel would not suggest innocence or a pretty, transparent bouquet. It would imply contrast: coolness against warmth, tailored green florals against sensual fruit, polish against a faint hint of danger. Artemisia and cypress evoke sharp intelligence, private gardens after rain, gin-and-tonic bitterness, and a woman who is not easily read. The floral notes soften that severity, while the fruity element adds a ripe, flirtatious flash. An oriental, fruity-floral drydown suggests the most important part of the name: warmth that lingers, a quiet sensuality, and an impression that becomes more compelling after the first encounter. “Scoundrel” in perfume would be a beautifully dressed provocation—never crude, but not entirely proper either.
Within the market of 1980, Scoundrel was both timely and distinctive. It shared the late-1970s taste for green florals, sophisticated fruit effects, and warmer oriental undertones, following a market already made receptive to confident, sensual scents such as YSL Opium and polished floral-woody fragrances. Yet Revlon’s composition appears to have been less about joining a single established family than about creating a personality through eclecticism: green but not merely fresh, floral but not demure, fruity but not juvenile, and oriental without being overwhelmingly dense. Its novelty lay especially in how completely the scent was matched to a new consumer identity—the accomplished, glamorous woman for whom intensity was not excessive but expressive.
In that respect, Scoundrel anticipated the full-bodied, ornamental perfumes that would define much of the 1980s. The decade soon embraced fragrance as a visible accessory: expansive floral bouquets, powder, woods, fruit, spice, and a lasting trail designed to accompany bold silhouettes and vivid color. Scoundrel stood at the opening of that movement. It retained some of the green, elegant sophistication of the 1970s, but it already possessed the vigor, volume, sensuality, and unapologetic theatricality of the decade to come.
Launch:
Within three weeks of reaching perfume counters, Scoundrel showed encouraging sales in some parts of the country, but the early evidence suggested that it had not arrived with the explosive force of Revlon’s earlier successes, Charlie and Jontue. In part, Revlon was confronting the consequences of its own achievement. The company had virtually defined modern lifestyle fragrance marketing: rather than sell a bottle or a list of notes, it sold a woman’s image of herself. By 1980, however, that strategy had been copied so extensively that Scoundrel seemed evolutionary rather than revolutionary. Its imagery was polished and ambitious, but its basic marketing language no longer had the shock of novelty.
The difficult economy also created consumer caution, particularly around discretionary purchases. More immediately, Revlon faced an unexpectedly formidable competitor: Coty’s Sophia, launched at nearly the same time and named for Sophia Loren. Loren’s television advertising gave the fragrance an instant aura of glamour, celebrity, and Italian sophistication. The success of Sophia also elevated Coty’s prestige; a company long associated largely with drugstore and variety-store merchandise suddenly found desirable department stores eager to carry the new fragrance. For Revlon, which wanted a stronger presence in upscale retailing, that development could not have been welcome.
Revlon closely guarded the details of Scoundrel’s introduction. It would say only that the launch was its most expensive fragrance debut to date, dismissing reports of an $8–10 million television and print budget as excessive. Industry reports suggested that the company’s first shipment, worth about $10 million, was distributed on a limited-allocation basis. The strategy was designed to create scarcity: if retailers could not immediately obtain enough product, demand might intensify, carrying Scoundrel through the vital Christmas selling season and into 1981. Yet John Maisano, then president of Revlon’s Group 1 division, recognized that shipment figures were not the final measure of success. The real test would come when women had worn the perfume and decided whether they loved it enough to buy it again.
Behind the elegant positioning, analysts believed that Scoundrel was distributed more strongly through mass-merchandise and discount stores than through prestige department stores. To some observers, it was therefore perceived as a mass-market fragrance, despite its sophisticated advertising, higher price, and glamorous Joan Collins association. Cosmetics have often performed relatively well during economic uncertainty, but consumers with shrinking disposable income may still hesitate over a new fragrance purchase, especially one presented as a richer, more adult luxury. The gap between Scoundrel’s aspirational image and its broad distribution may have complicated Revlon’s attempt to establish it as a prestige proposition.
There was also the possibility of internal competition. Industry observers wondered whether Scoundrel might attract women away from Charlie and Jontue, effectively cannibalizing Revlon’s own sales. During the first half of 1980, Revlon reportedly reduced advertising expenditures for Charlie by 36.1 percent and for Jontue by 26.8 percent, while increasingly concentrating promotional attention around Scoundrel. The previous year, the company had spent about $8 million in media support for the two established names, with more than half directed toward Charlie. Revlon publicly insisted that both earlier fragrances remained healthy, particularly in international markets, but the stakes were clear: Scoundrel had to expand the company’s customer base rather than merely divide it.
By early 1981, analysts believed that Scoundrel had probably met Revlon’s immediate sales targets, although they cautioned that it was still too soon to call it a lasting success. Revlon officials said they were very pleased with the initial response, but the true verdict depended on two later tests: whether retailers returned significant quantities of unsold stock, and whether consumers repurchased the fragrance after finishing their first bottle. Initial shipments could create excitement; repeat purchases would prove attachment. In that sense, Scoundrel’s first year was not merely a launch, but an audition for permanence in one of the most competitive fragrance markets in America.
Scoundrel LN7 500 Sweepstakes:
In 1982, Revlon attempted to give Scoundrel a dramatic new burst of momentum with an unusually ambitious promotion: the “Scoundrel LN7 500 Sweepstakes.” Organized with Weinstock’s department stores and Ford Motor Company’s Lincoln-Mercury Division, it paired a women’s fragrance with a specially customized automobile. Sandy Tregellas described it as the largest contest of its kind in cosmetics-industry history—and, reportedly, the first promotion of comparable scale in the automobile business. It was a quintessentially early-1980s idea: fragrance, fashion, glamour, retail spectacle, and the promise of mobility brought together in one highly visible campaign.
The prize was the two-passenger Scoundrel Custom Crafted LN7, a limited-edition version of Lincoln-Mercury’s sporty compact coupe, accompanied by a $1,000 department-store gift certificate. In each of forty market areas, two prizes were offered: the car itself and the shopping certificate. Customers entered the automobile sweepstakes at a Revlon counter, then received a referral to their local Lincoln-Mercury dealer for a test drive. After trying the car, they were encouraged to enter the second drawing for the $1,000 certificate. The promotion cleverly moved consumers between cosmetics counters, department-store floors, and automobile showrooms, turning the purchase of fragrance into an experience rather than a simple transaction.
The Scoundrel LN7 was designed to look as flamboyant as its name. Its exterior was finished in royal purple with bronze trim and detailing, colors chosen to echo the fragrance’s dramatic, luxurious image. Scoundrel logos—or mask-like insignias—appeared on the sides, hood, and wheel covers, while a plaque in the glove compartment identified it as a “Scoundrel” Limited Edition. Beneath the theatrical finish, the car retained the practical specifications of the LN7: a 1.6-liter engine with a two-barrel carburetor, four-speed standard transmission, front-wheel drive, wheel covers, and twin bucket seats. Yet its all-leather interior and high-fashion palette made it feel intended less as an ordinary commuter car than as an accessory for the woman Revlon imagined wearing Scoundrel.
Most remarkable was the automobile’s “fragrance bar.” Positioned between the driver’s and passenger’s bucket seats, this specially designed compartment held products from the Scoundrel fragrance line and allowed the scent to waft through the interior. It was an extravagant piece of brand theater: the perfume was not merely advertised by the car, but built into its atmosphere. The fragrance bar made the LN7 a mobile version of the Scoundrel fantasy—royal purple, bronze, leather, amber perfume, and the suggestion of a woman who could arrive anywhere in her own unmistakable style.
A total of forty-one specially prepared LN7s were involved in the promotion. Forty were intended for winners across the forty participating markets, while the forty-first was reserved for the Revlon employee judged to have done the most “fragrant” job of merchandising during the campaign. At a dealer base price of $8,046, the cars represented a substantial prize, even though Revlon did not technically purchase them outright. Tregellas explained that Lincoln-Mercury supplied the automobiles in exchange for advertising support, effectively treating the arrangement as though Revlon had bought them for promotional use.
The cars themselves became elaborate store displays. They appeared in department-store windows and in adjacent shopping malls, surrounded by coordinated purple-and-bronze materials created to make the promotion impossible to overlook. Revlon supplied color posters, specification graphics, flags, miniature “Scoundrel LN7” license plates, die-cut referral cards shaped like keys, fragrance tester displays, and a counter film titled A Very Average Day in the Life of Scoundrel. Lincoln-Mercury added its own showroom materials for participating dealers. The campaign therefore surrounded the customer with the Scoundrel image at every point of contact: first at the perfume counter, then in the department store, and finally behind the wheel of a purple-and-bronze automobile scented with the fragrance itself.
Twelve Weinstock’s stores in California, Nevada, and Utah were selected because of their strong sales of Revlon products. Whether the campaign would create the hoped-for additional sales remained uncertain, but Tregellas said that advance interest suggested it could be significant. More than a giveaway, the Scoundrel LN7 500 Sweepstakes was a vivid expression of Revlon’s belief that fragrance could sell an entire lifestyle. The woman was not simply asked to buy a perfume; she was invited to imagine herself as Scoundrel—confident, mobile, glamorous, and impossible to ignore.
 |
image enhanced & restored by Grace Hummel (Cleopatra's Boudoir).
|
The Faces of Scoundrel:
In 1983, Revlon enlisted Joan Collins as the face of Scoundrel, giving the fragrance the vivid personality it had lacked in its early years. Although Scoundrel had been conceived as a perfume for the glamorous, established, strong-willed woman, it had not achieved the immediate success of Revlon’s earlier blockbusters. Collins offered exactly the kind of visual shorthand the brand needed. At the height of Dynasty’s popularity, she was inseparable from Alexis Carrington Colby: magnificent, calculating, beautifully dressed, and gloriously unapologetic. The press often reduced Alexis to the “bitchy” or vampish villainess, but Revlon recognized the more useful fantasy beneath that description—a woman of formidable style, wealth, confidence, and command.
Collins made Scoundrel seem less like an abstract idea and more like a woman one might wish to become. Her image promised diamond earrings, black evening dresses, sculpted hair, champagne, grand rooms, and the ability to enter any scene as though it belonged to her. Revlon hoped that viewers of Dynasty would respond not only to Collins’s notoriety, but to the life of luxury and self-possession that she represented. If Alexis Carrington Colby was a scoundrel in the melodramatic world of television, Joan Collins became the polished, glamorous real-world embodiment of the fragrance’s audacious name.
In 1986, Revlon changed direction and appointed Susan Lucci as the newest face of Scoundrel. Lucci, then beloved for her long-running role as Erica Kane on All My Children, brought a different kind of television glamour. Revlon chairman Ronald Perelman announced the change with characteristic relish, calling her “TV’s original and best-loved wicked woman.” The choice preserved the fragrance’s mischievous, slightly dangerous identity while shifting its mood from Collins’s coolly imperial Dynasty fantasy to the more familiar, emotionally accessible world of daytime drama.
At first, Revlon would not explain why Collins was out and Lucci was in. A representative for Collins stressed that she had not been dismissed, but had simply completed a limited-term association with the company. Perelman later offered a more revealing explanation: Collins, he felt, had “limited” appeal, while Lucci was more approachable. Offscreen, Lucci was presented as a wife and mother from suburban Garden City, Long Island—a woman whose public image mixed soap-opera glamour with recognizably domestic warmth. In Revlon’s eyes, that made her more relatable to a broad fragrance-buying public.
The shift was therefore not a rejection of the Scoundrel woman so much as a recalibration of her. Joan Collins had made Scoundrel look like high camp, wealth, and devastating self-command; Susan Lucci made it seem like a fantasy that an ordinary woman could enter. Lucci herself said that she had worn the perfume for the previous three years and now wore it “for profit,” adding that the experience felt like “the stuff dreams are made of” and comparing it to being in an Audrey Hepburn film. Her remark captured the new strategy perfectly: Scoundrel could still be glamorous and a little wicked, but its glamour was now meant to feel inviting rather than intimidating.
 |
| image colorized & enhanced by Grace Hummel (Cleopatra's Boudoir). |
Fragrance Composition:
So what does it smell like? Scoundrel is classified as a fruity floral fragrance for women. It begins with a green fruity top, followed by a cool floral heart, layered over a floral, mild powdery base. Press materials read: "The floral top note features artemisia, cypress, hyacinth, jasmine, mimosa and others from the vast array of far-off lands. The drydown is described as Oriental and "fruity-floral." Long-lasting with vigor in the drydown period."
- Top notes: aldehyde, bergamot, peach, pineapple, green note complex, artemisia, spearmint, tagetes
- Middle notes: mimosa, hyacinth, cyclamen, jasmine, tuberose, rose, lily of the valley
- Base notes: cypress, oakmoss, sandalwood, cedarwood, musk, raspberry
Scent Profile:
Scoundrel unfolds as a polished fruity floral with a cool green opening, a luminous floral heart, and a surprisingly tenacious, softly powdery oriental drydown. The note list does not identify countries of origin for its natural materials, so its “far-off lands” imagery is best understood as the perfume’s intended atmosphere rather than a documented sourcing claim. What it suggests is a perfume made to feel worldly and elusive: brisk rather than innocent at first, flower-filled rather than conventionally sweet at its center, and warm, mossy, and faintly provocative as it settles on the skin.
The opening begins with aldehydes, which provide a bright, airy flash rather than a literal floral smell. In perfumery, “aldehyde” usually refers to a family of aroma chemicals; some occur naturally in tiny amounts, but the materials used to give a fragrance its radiant, champagne-like lift are generally made synthetically. They can smell waxy, citrusy, clean, metallic, or almost sparkling, and here they would make the fruit and green notes seem freshly illuminated. Bergamot adds the aroma of a just-twisted citrus peel: tart, lightly bitter, and delicately floral, with a tea-like elegance that keeps the composition from becoming sugary.
Peach and pineapple bring the first suggestion of mischief. Neither is usually represented by a straightforward natural essential oil; both are traditionally built as accords. A peach effect often depends on lactones—materials with the soft, creamy, skin-like scent of peach flesh and peach fuzz—while pineapple accords may use bright, volatile fruity materials to recreate the tart, juicy, almost fizzy character of the fresh fruit. These synthetic elements do not make the perfume less natural in feeling; rather, they supply the vivid, recognizable “fruit” that a simple extraction could not deliver. They give Scoundrel a ripe, flirtatious gleam beneath its more composed green surface.
The green-note complex acts as the perfume’s cool edge. It may suggest snapped stems, crushed leaves, wet grass, sap, and the silvery-green fragrance of a florist’s bucket. Such effects are often built from a combination of natural and synthetic materials: leafy molecules can make a floral scent feel as though it has been cut moments ago, while greener aromatic materials add darkness and tension. Artemisia contributes a dry, bitter, aromatic quality, almost absinthe-like in its herbal severity. Spearmint brings a sweeter, cooler minty freshness, while tagetes—also called marigold—adds a distinctive bitter-green, fruity, herbal facet with a leathery, sun-warmed undertone. Together, they give the top notes their “scoundrel” character: crisp, clever, and slightly unruly rather than merely pretty.
The heart becomes softer and more floral, beginning with mimosa. Natural mimosa absolute can offer a golden, powdery, pollen-like scent, reminiscent of soft yellow blossoms warmed by sunlight, with a faint green and honeyed nuance. Hyacinth brings a more aqueous, cool, green floral impression: damp stems, spring air, and petals with a faintly metallic freshness. Because hyacinth does not yield a practical essential oil that faithfully captures the living flower, its perfume effect is generally constructed from aroma chemicals and floral materials. These allow perfumers to preserve its fragile dewy brightness beside more powerful naturals.
Cyclamen gives the heart a clean, airy, watery floral quality, like translucent petals floating in cool water. It is another flower whose recognizable perfumery character is usually created rather than distilled. A cyclamen accord, often supported by materials historically known as cyclamen aldehydes, lends freshness, diffusion, and a gentle aquatic sheen. It helps keep the more sumptuous flowers from becoming dense, allowing Scoundrel’s floral heart to feel smooth, poised, and faintly cool rather than heavily narcotic.
Jasmine and tuberose introduce deeper sensuality. Jasmine may appear as a natural absolute—rich with tea-like petals, fruitiness, warmth, and a trace of indolic breath—but it is often enhanced with synthetic materials that amplify its radiance and recreate the bloom’s living, nocturnal quality. Tuberose is creamy, velvety, solar, and slightly green, with a lush white-flower intensity that can suggest warm skin, sweet nectar, and evening air. Rose brings its own familiar, petal-soft richness, balancing freshness, spice, and gentle sweetness. Together, these flowers give Scoundrel the glamour promised by its advertising: not a shy floral bouquet, but a composed, full-bodied floral presence.
Lily of the valley completes the heart with a clear, bell-like freshness. The living flower has a fragile green, sweet, almost watery scent, but it does not yield an essential oil suitable for ordinary perfumery extraction. Its effect is therefore built from carefully chosen aroma chemicals, which reproduce its luminous, clean floral character and help the entire bouquet bloom outward. In Scoundrel, this constructed note would brighten the jasmine, tuberose, rose, hyacinth, and mimosa, lending a poised floral clarity beneath the richer materials.
The drydown draws the fragrance into the more mysterious, “oriental” territory described in the press materials. Cypress contributes a dry, aromatic, coniferous woodiness: cool needles, resin, and shadowed evergreen branches. Oakmoss adds the velvety darkness of damp bark, forest earth, and green lichen, giving the fragrance depth and a slightly leathery, elegant bitterness. Sandalwood provides a creamy, smooth, softly spicy woodiness, while cedarwood is drier and pencil-like, with the brisk scent of freshly shaved wood. These woods make the floral heart feel tailored and enduring rather than soft or fragile.
Musk gives the base its warm, clean, skin-like persistence. In a fragrance of this period, it would most likely have been supplied by synthetic musks rather than animal musk; these materials can smell powdery, velvety, slightly sweet, or freshly laundered, and they help the fragrance cling to skin and fabric. Raspberry closes the composition with an unexpected red-fruit warmth. Like peach and pineapple, raspberry is generally recreated as an accord—often supported by materials such as raspberry ketone—because the fresh fruit does not yield a simple, stable perfume oil. It would add a soft, jammy, slightly violet-like sweetness to the mossy woods and musk, making the final effect both floral and fruit-tinted.
The result is a fragrance of deliberate contrasts: bright aldehydic light against green aromatic shadow; juicy peach and pineapple against cool hyacinth and cyclamen; creamy white flowers against dry cypress, oakmoss, and cedar. Its fruitiness is not juvenile, and its florals are not merely decorative. Scoundrel would feel self-possessed and lasting—a green, fruity floral whose warm, musky, subtly powdery trail carries the polished sensuality and restless confidence implied by its name.
Bottle:
Scoundrel was presented in a bottle designed to look both timeless and decidedly modern—an effect Sharon Ann Queeny described as “classic, yet contemporary,” much like the fragrance itself. Its clear glass body was elaborately formed with swirling, rippling relief, creating the impression of amber liquid moving behind folds of glass. The design recalled the sculptural luxury of 1930s Lalique perfume bottles: objects valued not only for the scent they contained, but for their tactile beauty, light-catching surfaces, and presence on a dressing table.
A softly frosted stopper crowned the bottle, contrasting with the clearer, more fluid-looking glass beneath it. The effect was elegant and faintly theatrical: frost against glow, opacity against transparency, and restrained geometry against the restless swirl of the bottle’s body. It gave Scoundrel a suitably glamorous visual identity—refined enough for a mature woman’s vanity, yet unusual enough to suggest the wit and unpredictability promised by the name.
The presentation continued in mauve boxes trimmed with gold, a rich color pairing that balanced softness with opulence. Mauve lent the packaging a feminine, slightly mysterious air, while the gold edging added a note of prestige and evening glamour. Together, bottle and box made the perfume feel like a small luxury object rather than merely a mass-market fragrance.
Queeny even suggested that the bottle be kept after its final drop had been used. Filled with tiny silk flowers or fitted with a small candle, it could become a decorative keepsake—an especially apt fate for a flacon whose swirling glass was designed to be admired long after the fragrance itself had disappeared.
Product Line:
Scoundrel was offered as a complete fragrance wardrobe, allowing its wearer to choose between intimate richness, airy daytime freshness, and softly scented body products. While the line appears to have shared the same essential fruity-floral, green-floral, and warm woody-musky character, each format would have emphasized different aspects of the composition. The parfum would bring forward the deeper floral, mossy, and softly oriental facets; the lighter colognes would make its green fruit, aromatic freshness, and cool floral notes more apparent; and the bath and body products would leave a gentler, more personal trace.
The 0.25-ounce parfum, retailing for $25, and the larger 0.5-ounce parfum, at $45, were the most luxurious expressions of Scoundrel. Applied in small dabs at the pulse points, they would likely have opened with a restrained shimmer of aldehydes, bergamot, peach, and green aromatic notes before revealing their richer core. Jasmine, tuberose, rose, mimosa, and hyacinth would seem more closely woven and less breezy than in the cologne, while the drydown would be especially lasting: a smooth mixture of sandalwood, cedar, oakmoss, musk, cypress, and the soft red-fruit nuance of raspberry. In parfum form, Scoundrel would feel quieter in projection but more concentrated, velvety, and intimate—an evening version of the fragrance, meant to warm gradually against the skin.
The 0.25-ounce Parfum Spray, priced at $20, would have offered much the same rich scent in a more expansive application. A spray disperses perfume in a fine halo rather than a single dab, so the sparkling aldehydic and fruity-green opening would likely be more immediately noticeable. The effect would be polished and dramatic: cool fruit and herbs in the first moments, then creamy flowers and a mossy, musky warmth as the mist settled on skin, hair, or clothing. It was the practical glamorous option—small enough for a handbag, but substantial enough to restore the perfume’s full Scoundrel presence before an evening out.
The 1/3-ounce Touch of Perfume, retailing for $7.50, was the most personal and accessible concentration in the line. Its exact applicator is not specified, but a product of this name would generally have been intended for a discreet, close-to-the-skin application. It would likely emphasize the perfume’s softer, more sensual side: a gentle floral-fruity sweetness, powdery musk, and a lingering trace of sandalwood and woods. Rather than announcing itself like a spray, it would invite someone to lean closer—a little touch of Scoundrel at the wrist, throat, or behind the ear.
The 2-ounce and 4-ounce Cologne Splashes, priced at $8 and $12.50 respectively, were the generous, relaxed forms of the fragrance. Applied after bathing or smoothed liberally over the body, they would make Scoundrel feel brighter and more refreshing. Bergamot, aldehydes, peach, pineapple, mint, artemisia, tagetes, and green notes would lead the experience, creating a lively, aromatic rush before the flower notes emerged. The jasmine, hyacinth, cyclamen, and lily-of-the-valley effects would be more transparent in this dilution—like cool flowers in air rather than a bouquet held against the face—while the woods and musk would fade to a soft, clean warmth. These were the versions for daytime, warm weather, and generous reapplication.
The one-ounce Cologne Spray, also $7.50, was a convenient portable version of that brighter character. It would give a quick mist of green fruit, citrus, and cool floral freshness, then settle into a light but recognizably Scoundrel-like trail. The two-ounce Classic Edition Concentrated Cologne Spray, at $11, and the larger 2.5-ounce Concentrated Cologne Spray, at $13, would have occupied the middle ground between the free-spirited splash and the private intensity of the parfum. Their higher fragrance concentration would give greater persistence and a fuller drydown: the peach-and-pineapple impression would remain longer, the white flowers would feel more substantial, and the cypress, oakmoss, sandalwood, cedarwood, and musk would carry the scent through the day with more vigor.
The Perfumed Body Powder, priced at $8, would have translated Scoundrel into a soft, tactile cloud. Body powder tends to mute sharp citrus and green notes, emphasizing instead the perfume’s powdery floral heart and musk. On warm skin, it would likely smell of mimosa, rose, lily-of-the-valley, and softly blurred jasmine, over a clean, velvety base of sandalwood and musk. It would leave the skin satin-dry and subtly fragrant, creating a delicate perfumed veil beneath clothing rather than the more direct presence of cologne or parfum.
Body Silk, at $10, was likely intended as the line’s moisturizing, skin-softening companion. In a lotion or cream-like format, Scoundrel would become creamier, warmer, and more sensual. The fruits and aldehydes would be quieter, while the floral notes would seem softened by the product’s emollient texture; sandalwood, musk, and the mild powdery quality of the base would become especially apparent. Worn beneath the cologne or parfum, it would extend the fragrance’s life and make its trail feel more seamless, as though the scent belonged naturally to the wearer’s skin.
Finally, the Spirited Perfume Bath offered the most indulgent and immersive version of the Scoundrel ritual. In warm water, the perfume would likely bloom first as an aromatic, green-fruity vapor—bergamot, herbs, peach, pineapple, and fresh floral notes rising with the steam—before leaving the skin touched by a lighter version of the floral, woody, musky drydown. It would not replace the lasting effect of the parfum, but it would create the first layer of the fragrance wardrobe: a private, fragrant preparation for the more visible glamour of a concentrated cologne spray or parfum.
Fate of the Fragrance:
Discontinued, date unknown. Still being sold in 1994.
 |
image colorized & enhanced by Grace Hummel (Cleopatra's Boudoir).
|
Scoundrel Musk:
In 1985, Revlon introduced Scoundrel Musk as a deliberately younger, more concentrated counterpart to its four-year-old Scoundrel fragrance. While the original Scoundrel was aimed at women aged twenty-five to forty-nine, Scoundrel Musk was directed toward the thirteen-to-twenty-four market: a generation drawn to personal, long-lasting fragrance and a more openly provocative style of beauty advertising. Although it benefited from the recognition of the established Scoundrel name, Revlon presented it as an entirely new perfume rather than merely a line extension.
The scent was offered as both a spray cologne and a perfume oil, capitalizing on the contemporary fascination with musk oils. Their appeal lay in their persistence on skin and the belief that musk developed differently—almost individually—on each wearer. Revlon described Scoundrel Musk as “an intense, highly concentrated, new richness”: a sultry, sensual fragrance embellished with heady florals over a powerful musky foundation. The oil format made that promise especially persuasive, suggesting an intimate scent that clung close to the body and became part of the wearer rather than simply hovering around her.
Joan Collins, the glamorous “spokestar” of Scoundrel, fronted the campaign, giving the youthful fragrance a note of grown-up, high-voltage allure. Grey Advertising supported the launch with a national print and television campaign budgeted at more than $5 million. The memorable line, “Never met a Scoundrel I didn’t like,” linked the perfume to Collins’s confident, mischievous screen persona, while the formal introduction—“Unmistakably female. Undeniably provocative.”—made the fragrance’s intended character unmistakable.
Scoundrel Musk was priced accessibly for its young audience: the 0.56-ounce spray cologne sold for $6.97, the larger 1.8-ounce spray for $10.97, and the compact 0.3-ounce Musk Oil for $7.97.
