Subaru is hard at work on the successor to the legendary Impreza WRX. Spy photographers recently caught several camouflaged test vehicles strutting their stuff. The shots lead us to believe that the new car will be a hatchback, drawing its design inspiration from the ’00 B5-THP concept car. The change from four doors to five will throw the WRX STI against cars like the Volkswagen Golf GTI, Opel Astra OPC and Ford Focus ST. Do the European and American hot-hatches stand a chance?

Although Americans are supposedly hatch aversive, the arrival of the MINI, Audi's “premium compact,” sales of the not-for-fairies Dodge Caliber and the emergence of the “hatches on stilts” CUV genre have all paved the way for a Subaru WRX STI five-door. Equally important, the current Impreza is having a hard time competing against European hot hatches and wagons. Audi's new S3 and BMW's 130i have extended the battle into Subie’s (and the Mitsubishi Evo's) happy hunting grounds. By adding a fifth door, maintaining the brand's astounding value-for-money pricing, and keeping the model's supercar slaying performance, a Subaru Impreza hatchback could recapture lost ground from higher-priced competitors, and obliterate its peers.

The B5-THP’s fancy hybrid technology will not make it to production, but some of its design lines certainly will. At our behest, artist Andrei Avarvarii examined the next gen WRX spy shots and prepared two computer illustrations to give TTAC readers a feel for where the next WRX may be heading.

Judging from the photos, the B5-THP concept’s front fascia seems fairly close to production. The headlights will get conventional lamps while maintaining their radical shape. Same for the radiator grille, which will feature the usual black plastic net instead of the concept’s shiny, painted look.

The STI's aggressive front spoiler will host a enlarged air intake to meet the turbocharged boxer engine’s cooling needs. A fully functional hood scoop will also remain in situ, continuing to project the WRX’ extreme capabilities and rally heritage. To that end, large round fog lights will extend and complete the snout’s rally-car look.

The new WRX’ rear will drop the fantasy optics of the B5-THP for conventional lights, with a different shape (but similar technology) to that of the current models. The sportier-looking exhaust will be probably divided in two, to accommodate the boxer engine’s two banks of cylinders.

Mechanically, the new Impreza WRX will be an evolution, not a revolution. The model will continue to use technology developed for and borrowed from the company’s phenomenally capable WRC rally cars. Obviously, racing technology marches on; so there’s plenty of scope suspension and drivetrain upgrades– that will increase the car’s hard-man reputation for extreme performance.

Although the new WRX STI's turbo boxer engine will still displace 2.5 liters, rumor has it that the updated blower will boost power (so to speak) to 330hp, perhaps more in selected markets (in Japan, a “gentlemen’s agreement” limits a vehicle’s power output to 280hp). Subaru’s engineers have also addressed the powerplant’s lack of bottom end torque– one of the few chinks in the WRX’ mechanical armory.

The WRX STI's legendary four-wheel drive system is slated to be fitted with new active differentials. It’s not known, but likely, that some of the components will made out of high-strength, low-weight aluminum, as more and more automotive manufacturers are turning to the material to try to save weight, to increase performance without raising fuel consumption.

The WRX STI's interior is a question mark. Subaru would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know they need to raise the WRX' cabin's game to meet the encroaching threat of the premium hot hatches. Whether or not the WRX will sacrifice some of its maniacal nature to achieve greater ride comfort is another quandary that won't be answered for some time yet. On one hand, a more civilized Impreza would make serious inroads into the hatchback market. On the other hand, the car's take-no-prisoners nature has won it a large and devoted following– who would not want the car to go "soft" in any way, shape or form.

A launch date for the new WRX STI has not been officially announced. Judging from the current test car’s level of development, the new STI should be ready for production in late 2008.

[For more of Mr. Avavarii's work, please visit www.spyshots.carbonmade.com]

GM Car Czar Maximum Bob Lutz’ recently stated that anyone who thinks that GM will shutter divisions is a “weenie” who doesn’t understand the cost of dealer lawsuits. Yes, well, one day, GM will have to jettison brands. Perceived wisdom dictates that The General should pare itself down to Chevrolet (low end cars), GMC (trucks and SUV’s) and Cadillac (high end cars). As for Saab, Buick Hummer and Saturn, bon voyage!  And then there’s Pontiac. Yes, Pontiac. I believe GM’s product starved “performance” division has the greatest potential of any of its current brands. With great products, Pontiac could go from neglected stepchild to superstar son.

The Solstice roadster is a huge step in the right direction for GM’s excitement division, in every way the ill-fated “new” GTO wasn't (except luggage room). Chiefly, the Solstice is gorgeous. The model also has an entry-level and hard core (or at least harder core) performance variant (GXP). As for the rest of the lineup… meh. G6: a rental car from birth that’s nowhere near as good as the Camry/Accord juggernaut. G5: ditto. Grand Prix: 303hp through the front wheels—who wants that? Torrent: as exciting as a cute ute can get (i.e. not at all). Vibe: a Toyota Corolla. GTO: dead and dead ugly.

So, now’s the time to apply a little art and a little science a la big brother Cadillac. First off, GM should decontent the beJesus out of Caddy’s outgoing CTS, give it Solstice-quality sensuous sheet metal and rechristen it the Pontiac Grand Prix. While the new CTS is due any time now, Chrysler’s 300– made with bits and pieces of the last gen Mercedes E-Class– shows you can get new money for old rope. This home-grown Grand Prix would keep both customers and the UAW happy. The Caddy set up’s rear wheel-drive opens-up the possibilities; can you imagine a Grand Prix Coupe with a 505hp Z06 engine? Eat that, Shelby GT500. More importantly, you’d have a family-priced rear-driver that would steal sales from DXC’s ageing Magnum/Charger/300C trifecta.

Meanwhile, bring on the Firebird! With FoMoCo selling massive herds of Mustangs (August being the best ‘Stang month since 1979), Pontiac needs to flip their cross-town rivals the bird. Release a new Pontiac Firebird with half a dozen variations right off the bat with various degrees of engine oomph. Build it off the Corvette chassis—not the Camaro’s. Most importantly, festoon it with flaming chickens. We love that. Point being: make it as visually exciting as the Solstice. Make it a sports car that people talk about, swoon over and ultimately desire.

Speaking of excitement, where are America's WRX’s and Evo’s? Sure, the Dodge Caliber SRT-4 puts out 300hp, but it’s a front-driver, the chassis is junk and it looks constipated. GM committed a horrible, almost unforgivable gaffe with the Saabaru, charging 5K over retail for nothing more than a badge. (That car should have been the new Vibe.) Correct the mistake. Imagine a small, American wagon with world class performance and handling. People would eat it up. The fat-faced Chevrolet WTCC Ultra that GM recently debuted in Paris would make a vicious Pontiac; assuming they raise the asphalt-scraping chin spoiler a yard. Even if that particular small, muscular car is not the solution, something is. Build it, and boy racers will come.

The world also needs an exciting and sexy fuel-sipper. Sure, you can buy Honda’s Fit – an outstanding car – but it’s just so goofy looking. There’s the Mini, but it’s over-boiled and too much of a statement for many. Most importantly, neither car is American. Instead of taking the lame, Lido way out and importing small, dorky Korean subs, let’s design and build one here. DCX is about to start building the Hornet in China, which despite what WalMart wants you to think, is not America. Moreover, the Hornet looks like an angry filing cabinet. Pontiac, this segment is yours for the taking.

Pontiac can of course choose to do none of the above, stay the course and follow Oldsmobile, Plymouth and Dead-Buick-Walking to the gates of automotive hell, with Lincoln/Mercury bringing up the rear. But that needn’t be the case. Performance divisions, no matter how stale the marketing shtick may be, are good things. Take a gander at Mazda, Ford’s defacto fun to drive brand. With the lone exception of the lame duck B4000 pickup, all of Mazda’s product offerings are at least sporty, if not outright sports cars. From the mutant CX-7 to the perfectly executed Miata, every product serves the driver first, last and second. And Mazda’s US sales are up 5% from a year ago. In a model cycle, Pontiac could be in the same boat, especially if they heed the example of what the CTS-V did for Cadillac; making enthusiasts care about a moribund brand. It’s the fast things that count.

According to those renowned postmodern philosophers the Barenaked Ladies, “everything old is new again.”  The maxim certainly applies to the automotive industry. Those of us who put ourselves in Moto-PR harm’s way are constantly bombarded by joyous claims of new and improved technology and the latest justgottahavit features: self-parking cars, adaptive cruise control, heated/cooled cup holders, etc. The truth is, many of the technological advancements we lust after are recycled ideas from days gone by. They may be “improved” but they definitely aren’t “new.” 

As manufactures try to squeeze every inch per gallon out of engines that lower their CAFE ratings, variable displacement powerplants (a.k.a. “Displacement on Demand”) are the next big thing. Shutting down half the cylinders turns a powerful V8 into the world’s bulkiest four-cylinder, but saves enough fuel to salve the customer’s conscience and convince them that they’re doing something positive for the environment/America’s energy independence.

Back in ‘77, Ford developed an ill-fated version of their 300-cubic-inch truck engine that shut off three cylinders in cruising mode. In the early ‘80’s, GM’s infamous V-8-6-4 engine made it to market. Unfortunately, engine control technology wasn’t mature enough to handle the task efficiently and the idea died an ignominious death (along with the Cadillac models powered by GM’s variable displacement engine). Now that computer technology has caught up with the concept, we have engines that adapt to changing conditions faster than a White House press secretary.

GM was the first to offer another technological marvel infesting today’s high-priced luxobarges: menu-driven video screen control panels. Whether it’s called iDrive, COMAND, MMI or just plain aggravating, they’re all riffs on the Electronic Control Center (ECC) installed in Buick’s Reatta and Riviera in the late 80’s. The ECC touch screen adjusted the radio and climate control functions and accessed diagnostics for the vehicle's various electronic systems. It was universally reviled by the automotive press, and for good reason: drivers found it confusing and complicated. Of course, today’s mouse-driven multi-media controllers boast high-resolution full-color screens and… greater complexity.

The starter button is a slightly more useful addition to today’s high-priced cars. This hot new feature dates back to the early days of the last century, when Cadillac first introduced the self-starter. For years, the ignition key was used only to close the ignition circuit. To start the car, you turned on the ignition then pushed or stepped on the starter button. On some really fancy cars, it was combined with the accelerator; flooring the pedal would both set the choke and start the car. Today, financially flush carpal tunnel sufferers can rejoice. With an RFI-enabled key fob tucked in your pocket or purse, you just push the button and go.

And then there’s the treehuggers' dream date: the electric car. The way its boosters promote the technology, you’d think they invented electricity. But any pistonhead worth his gas card knows that electric cars pre-date the gasoline-powered car. An electric vehicle was the first to break the 100 kilometers per hour barrier in 1899, reaching the blinding speed of 105.88 kph (65.79 mph). Most production electric cars were limited to a more civil 20 mph and marketed as town cars to upper-class customers and women drivers, thanks to their clean, quiet and genteel operation.

By the 1930’s, the electric car industry had all but disappeared. It’s a good thing we’ve progressed so far in the intervening 70 years or so. Today, there are only a few things standing between us and freeways filled with silent running electric cars: finding a way to create an affordable, safe machine that can travel a distance comparable to a conventionally-powered car that can be recharged quickly and conveniently for the same price as it would cost for a tank of gas. Which is, of course, the same set of problems that killed the concept last time.

Some ideas come and go, then come and go again. In 2003, GMC touted their Envoy XUV’s “first ever” retractable roof (a roof section that slides back and forth to facilitate tall cargo). Forty years earlier Studebaker offered the Wagonaire, a station wagon with a retractable roof. Envoy owners retracted the XUV's top with the flick of a switch, while the Studebaker’s lid was a clever manual design. But both systems had one thing in common: an alarming propensity to leak. At least GMC had enough sense to abandon the idea after two model years; Studebaker hung in for four.

Who knows what the next “new” idea will be or who will have it?  Whatever it is, it’s probably been done before. Which is just as well. The only thing worse than an old idea made new is a new idea made bad.

Why do manufacturers of high end cars think I’m an idiot? Their automobiles tell me when their tires need air, when the coolant is low and when it’s time for an oil change. They [still] remind me to buckle-up, close my door and take my key. They warn me of approaching objects (front and rear). Yes, I know: this dumbing-down suits the majority of wealthy car buyers, who’d rather read a treatise on Keynesian economics than check their oil. Still, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere. Sun visor stickers are my personal line in the sand.

I just spent $270 replacing my Mercedes’ sun shields with virgin visors– just to rid myself of those bothersome airbag warning labels. I used to peel them off myself, but the stickers have become tackier and tackier (in every sense); my patient peeling and wiping is no longer effective. In my Audi and BMW, I’m not as lucky: the warning labels are embossed into the visor, both OEM and aftermarket.  

For all I know, it’s illegal to remove airbag warning stickers. I’m not concerned. For years, I have been removing stickers from my pillow which read, “Warning, these stickers are not to be removed under penalty of law!” I’ve never been arrested for this desecration of my own personal property. As far as I know, there is no warrant out for my arrest. The day the cops check for missing airbag stickers is the day I buy a big bore shotgun and join Oregon’s survivalists.

The airbag stickers warn you that short people and small children can be injured by airbags. No, really? More importantly, what’s it got to do with me? First, I’m not short and I am childless. Second, I don’t let kids ride in the front seat of my cars. (If I had kids, I’d consider it my responsibility to discover the safest way to carry them.) Third, short people have free will; they can weigh-up the dangers of front seat airbags and decide whether or not to drive a car, sit in the passenger seat or sacrifice their pride and jump in the back.

Why can’t I just sign a release when I purchase my vehicle stating that I understand that airbags are dangerous? After I purchase a vehicle in California, I have to sign statements saying I understand that there is no cooling off period and that the dealer can check my credit and invade my privacy and charge me $2.00 to inspect my tires. I never saw a sticker that warned me about this.

I want to know which lawsuit made these stickers a requirement in every vehicle sold in the U.S. Who determined that airbags were the foremost danger facing automobile drivers (literally)? Can a brightly-colored written warning label immutably attached to the most obvious (and therefore most annoying) location in our cars solve the problem? Are the people that need these labels even reading them? Can they even read?

Manufacturers should be concerned about more perilous threats to our safety. What about yakking on the cell or wiping snot off the kid in the [airbagless] backseat? How about drinking and driving? Fastening my seat belt? Speeding, not checking my mirrors or aggressive lane changing? Eating? Smoking (imagine how long that one would be)? Don’t these behaviors cause more accidental deaths than “killer airbags”? Perhaps there should be a warning label telling me to never attempt to drive in the city of Boston. No, instead I’m warned about a passive safety device that I’ll probably (hopefully?) never use.

Other than killing all the lawyers, there is an answer to this litigious lunacy: a test to determine whether or not you need to be protected from your own stupidity. (Once upon a time, a high school diploma or a driving test would’ve done the trick.) If you prove you possess a modicum of intelligence and simple common sense, you could carry a card that exempted you from these Nanny State warnings.

Your car’s owner’s manual would be half the size. You could just know that objects in the side mirror aren’t as close as they appear. And there'd be other benefits. When you bought a coffee from McDonalds, you could drink a cup of hot coffee that didn’t warn you not to burn yourself. You could fall asleep on the airplane in front of the flight attendants while they demonstrate to the knuckle-draggers how to buckle a seatbelt. Instead of a warning on cigarette packs, it would simply say, ‘enjoy.’

And the next time I visit a dealer, I could present my card and they would say, “Ah, Mr. Shoemaker, you want to look at these cars over here.” And there would sit my dream car: an automobile without idiot lights or warning labels.

Since the Model T, car owners have paid good money to make their rides stand out from the crowd. A brass radiator cap, special head lights, a steering wheel that pivoted out of the way– these are just a few of the hundreds of mods that could turn a Tin Lizzie into your Tin Lizzie. Today, the trend continues with an even wider (and wilder) array of goodies lining the aisles of automotive parts emporia, tempting whoever wanders past with the promise of aesthetic liberation. With a few exceptions, the only thing that results from these efforts is a 9-1-1 to the taste police.

I know taste is subjective. I realize that we live in a society that guarantees its citizens’ freedom of expression. But there should be limits to what someone can do to a perfectly good car. On what grounds can you defend putting a vinyl coating on your car’s roof so it looks like a convertible when it clearly isn’t?  Although vinyl roofs had their heyday in the 70’s and early 80’s, along with platform shoes with fish in the heels, this unconscionable vulgarity refuses to disappear. The Chrysler 300 is the current favorite for this abomination but anything with wheels seems to be fair game. Anyone ever see an Aztec with a fake convertible top? I have. I still have nightmares about it.

Most of the cosmetic accessories sold today do little more than identify their owner as a world-class poseur. Can anyone tell me the logic of slapping air dams and wings onto a car that’s never driven anywhere but the streets at speeds that require no aerodynamic addenda? Air dams and side skirts are one thing on an M3 prepped for a race course. They’re something else entirely on a Honda CRX being driven back and forth to work. And they fool no one. Nine times out of ten, the only thing they’re good for is hanging up on speed bumps, curbs and car washes.

The bright chrome wheels that look like an attachment for a Cuisinart are equally ludicrous. Adding spinners to the wheels only heightens the impression they are better suited for slicing salami than supporting a set of tires.  Most cars are styled for specific wheel sizes; adding dubs or double dubs makes them look like something that ended-up in Big Daddy Roth’s waste basket. When you see a $2k car with $4k wheels and spinners, it’s all show and no go.  Sometimes you have to wonder if the engine can produce enough torque to turn over those monstrosities.

Special mention goes to that category of modifications known as donks, bubbles and boxes. For those of you who haven’t kept up with the latest in urban transportation, these are 70’s and 80’s era GM rear wheel-drivers that have been jacked-up to fit the largest set of wheels possible (26-inchers are the most common size), sporting paint jobs that cost more than the book value of the vehicle. Lambo-style doors are optional, but highly desired.  These sick cars (in the classic meaning of the word, not the urban vernacular) bring to mind Back to the Future III. You know; the scene where Dr. Emmett Brown retrofits the Delorean with stagecoach wheels.  I can’t imagine what it must be like to try to turn a corner in one of these tipsy-looking hoopties-– which may explain why you see them driven slowly on city streets and never on the highways.

Thankfully, some customizers limit their forays to their car’s interior (instead of assaulting the sensibilities of innocent bystanders). Once upon a time, automotive interior decorating was limited to some new seat covers and a pair of fuzzy dice. Today, there are almost as many ways to screw-up the inside of a car as there are people willing to do it.  You can cover your chairs, dashboard, headliner and doors with everything from cow spots to urine-colored leather. Steering wheel covers range from the patently faux (petrochemical leather), to what the fo’ (fake fur). Neon lights can appear everywhere from the ash trays to the cupholders.

I’m not picking on America’s automotive underclass. I know there are dozens of tuners who inflict massive taste failures on box fresh, world-class sports cars: Porsches, Lamborghinis, Ferraris and yes, Aston Martins. I also know that most owners who individualize their rides have good intentions– in the same sense that a teenage girl with a Mohawk haircut only wants to draw a little attention to herself (so she can tell onlookers to f-off). Unfortunately, they have no taste. They don’t understand the subtle joys of owning the right car perfectly specced-up at the factory, unmolested. Luckily for us, rappers and sports stars do.  More and more of the cars I see in Celebrity Rides are just that. Thank God.

In his own ew-inducing sort of way, Oedipus defined the Tragic Hero. His story teaches us that character is fate; the arrogant King can no more escape his destiny than a bad guy on a cop show. And so it is with the Ford Taurus, a vehicle named for either the constellation of the same name (minus the Ford) or the Zodiac sign ascribed to it. According to pseudo- science, Taureans are practical, reliable, patient, affectionate, competent, ambitious, determined, lazy, jealous, inflexible, greedy and stubborn. And some people wonder why the model took twenty years to die an ignominious death…

No question, the Ford Mustang is a galloping success. Both the base and GT models are a runaway success, contributing significant revenue to their corporate parent. And now legendary racer, sports car constructor and chili magnate Carroll Shelby is adding some hot tamales to the feed bag. The Shelby Cobra GT500 goes on sale any second now, saddled with a supercharged 5.4-liter V8 good for 500hp. Although there’s little doubt that Shelby’s performance package will be a well-engineered addition to the core car’s strengths, it’s still a case of too much too late.

Let’s Review. For 50 percent more than the MSRP of a Mustang GT, the GT500 buyer gets a supercharger, an intercooler, a race-proven T56 six-speed manual transmission, suspension mods, 18” wheels, wider tires, distinctive spoiler and grill treatments and one whole Hell of a lot of Shelby badging. Oh, and roughly 400 pounds of additional weight, which push this pony car into the Crown Vic weight class. And that’s what I’m talking about: Ford’s decision to add horsepower to the Mustang instead of reducing weight.

It may be a piercing glimpse into the obvious, but Ford could have made a serious performance car out of the Mustang GT simply by shedding weight. In fact, if the 300hp GT lost 700 pounds, it would have the same power-to-weight ratio as the 500hp Shelby GT500. A leaner, meaner, altogether keener Mustang GT would find a willing market, and serve notice to GM and DaimlerChrysler that Ford isn’t going to cede the ponycar market quite yet. There are a number of ways, most of them relatively cheap, to ditch the Mustang’s extra pounds.

Start by eliminating the air conditioning. This lightweight GT (call it the GT-L) would be a potential race-ready road car, not a boulevard cruiser for hot nights in Vegas. If it wasn’t for the Federal standards about defrosters, you might be able to leave off the heater. But even with a heater and defroster, the elimination of the air conditioning unit would drop a lot of mass, and some drag on the engine as well. Next, ditch the power windows. If Ford made the call, its suppliers could come up with a manual window regulator in a heartbeat.

Likewise, lose the electric locks. Real racers can push their own lock buttons down. Ditto for the electric trunk release. Once those are gone, the module that controls these functions and related wiring can also be deleted, saving even more weight. The radio and CD player can also go; the glorious fury of the Mustang GT’s V8 is music enough to a performance junkie. And while we’re at it, deep-six the sound deadening material behind the front seats. And the back seats, rear seat belts and shoulder harnesses.

Ford can use the front fascia from the base six cylinder Mustang, delete the fog lights and save a few more pounds. The cladding on the rocker panels can go, too. Who cares if the tires throw a little dirt on the side of the car? And off with the spoiler. A real racer is going to fashion a spoiler that works, rather than one that satisfies the design committee. Removing the spare tire, jack and tools will also liberate some major heft.

These simple steps would get the Mustang coupe’s weight near the goal of 2600 lbs. Several more radical changes would get the weight to less than 2600 pounds. How ‘bout manual steering? Back to the supplier for a manual rack and pinion gear. This would allow the elimination, and drag, of the power steering pump. A Mustang with manual steering would probably be a bear to park, but pistonheads aren’t going to buy this car for their grandmothers. The final step: kill the center console. This would require some new parts, but the existing console has to be a lot heavier than a few rubber boots around the shifter.

Tweak the car’s suspension, add appropriate decals and there you have it: a Mustang that’s fully competitive with the Shelby version, and a lot better handling to boot. As less is sometimes less, the Mustang GT-L’s development costs would not be prohibitive. Lest we forget Shelby himself jettisoned ballast when he developed the GT350, ‘way back in the 60s. It was a belter that burnished the image created by the Cobra. Porsche, Mazda, Honda and several other manufacturers build lightweight performance cars like these. Even better for Ford, they charge more money for them. That’s a business plan that FoMoCo should latch onto pronto.

Of course, not many people would buy this car. But there is simply no underestimating the street cred a GT-L would generate for Ford and its entire Mustang franchise. Of course, there’s nothing to stop ole Shel from putting his Mustang on a diet…

Six years ago, social commentator David Brooks published his book Bobos in Paradise: The New Upper Class and How They Got There. Brooks’ explained how the countercultural values of the ‘60’s and ‘70’s were adopted by the mainstream by the mid-‘90’s. Marketers devoured Brooks’ book like it was crab legs on a Chinese buffet. Ever since, we’ve seen an explosion of style in every aspect of our lives and every room of our homes– except, of course, the garage.  If Wal-Mart (of all places) sells dinner plates suitable for the Museum of Modern Art, why are today’s cars so dull?  My theory: car designers are still in the thrall of the 1984 Audi 5000.

When the Audi 5000 debuted in 1983, the motoring press slobbered all over themselves. They showered the model with endless praise, touting it as “the world’s most aerodynamic sedan.” In fact, the car’s styling was a remix of the previous year’s 5000. Its soft corners, unsculptured sides, flush glass, and understated “blackout” trim had all been done before. The new 5000 simply combined all these exterior features into an easy-to-fawn-over form.  Inside the car, the 5000’s interior belied its upscale aspirations; it was a Jetta wearing a corduroy blazer.  Maybe the sublime (for its time) experience of driving the 5000 blurred the critics’ judgment.

The 5000 died a quick, undeserved death in the American marketplace, stabbed in the sales chart by investigative journalism. Its influence, however, is still with us twenty-three years later. Within just a couple model seasons, most Japanese manufacturers had appropriated the 5000’s “no nonsense” persona for their own, more modest vehicles.  Mazda styled its late-80s 323, 626, and 929 sedans as knockoffs of Audi’s flagship saloon. The 1987 Toyota Camry and 1990 Honda Accord also carried surprising amounts of Teutonic styling DNA. It took American manufacturers a little longer, but eventually even they stripped their cars of chrome, complicated sheetmetal bends, and any other ornamentation.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of assassination. Typical of both Japanese and American auto companies, excessive me-tooism quickly turned the 5000’s look into a cliché. Even such decidedly non-wonderful cars as the Chevy Celebrity wound up looking like ersatz Audis.

Much of the 5000’s lingering influence isn’t immediately obvious. The ongoing effect lies in the car’s proportions: the relationship of the front and rear overhangs to each other and to the car’s total length, the relationship between the roofline and the beltline, the tumble-home of the side glass, and other minor details. Even manufacturers who were slow to adopt the 5000’s Bauhaus aesthetic enthusiastically embraced its proportioning. It’s as if designers had suddenly discovered the Golden Rectangle of automobiles. Again, the 5000’s influence is still with us.  Other than front wheel drive, what do the Acura TL and the Chevrolet Impala have in common?  The Audi 5000’s proportions, that’s what.

These days, when a carmaker deviates from the Audi 5000’s basic proportions even slightly, everyone notices. Consider the most roundly praised recent mainstream sedan, the Chrysler 300C.  Everyone is all over this car because to our eyes it looks so different from every other sedan on the road. What, stylistically, has changed in the 300C?  The relationship between the beltline and the road.  Otherwise, it too embodies the 5000’s basic proportions.

Occasionally, some designers will sneak a bit of subversion through the design process, even though much true design innovation gets the kibosh from platform engineers. Chrysler’s “cab-forward” styling of the mid-1990s is an example of this. Yet, in twenty-three years, there hasn’t been a serious challenger to the Audi 5000. Nothing else has even showed potential of becoming a new car design icon.

Well, that’s not entirely true.  There was one car: the 1996 Ford Taurus.  While the original Taurus was slagged by some as a 5000 rip-off back in ‘86, the ‘96 version could not really be accused of following any known influence.  It couldn’t have been more iconoclastic had Ford put all four wheels on the roof and asked the driver to sit in the trunk. Its Mercury Sable sister car was just as radical.  Ford’s multi-billion-dollar gamble didn’t pay off, however.  The Taurus eventually lost its status as America’s best-selling sedan. Some of that was down to Ford’s decision to price the car much higher than its Japanese-branded competition (and then cut and run by dumping the car into rental fleets).  But a lot of the blame for the Taurus’ demise is attributable to the car’s too-far-out-there styling.

Marketers may imitate successful products a little too much, but they go to great lengths to avoid imitating failures like the 1996 Taurus.  Why do cars all wear the same dull clothes these days?  Because the sales charts tell us that we can’t ever get enough of the 1984 Audi 5000.

A recent TTAC post asked for nominations for the car most likely to get you “a date” (as my wife puts it).  Our well-informed readers made all the obvious suggestions: studly Italian V12’s, check-out-my-package Teutons, midlife-crisis American roadsters, horny-royal Astons and phallic-as-you-wanna-be XKE’s. Yet nobody mentioned the absolute sure thing getluckymobile: the Amphicar. Yes, we’re talking about that 1960’s-era wackiness that answered the question nobody asked:  “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a car that floats?” Schwing!

The Amphicar is the only amphibious civilian vehicle ever put into commercial production. The machines trace their ancestry to the Wehrmacht’s Schwimmwagens, Ferdinand Porsche’s VW-based creation for Hitler’s Third Reich. After the war, a company backed by the Quandt family (which also owned a controlling share of a then-tiny German car company called BMW) produced a civilian amphibious vehicle that took up where the stark military motorfowl left off. During seven years of operation, Amphicar built 3878 Model 770’s. At a stroke, U.S. emissions regulations ended the company’s viability. About half of the vehicles produced survive. Somewhere between 300 and 600 are still “swimmers”– the Amphiphile’s term for ones that still float.

With a bespoke land-and-water transmission, Amphicarians can use either the machine’s wheelsor its twin props. As detailed by amphicar.com, the platypussian beast’s "land transmission" is a four-speed-plus-reverse unit similar to those found in the old Volkswagen Beetle. The "water transmission" is a two-speed transfer case, offering only forward and reverse gears.  The Amphicar’s one major innovation in an admittedly limited genre: the front wheels double as rudders.

So what’s this tremendously odd creation of a normally sane people like to drive?  Novice seaplane pilots will tell you that your first reaction to an obstacle in the water is to step on the brakes. I’m sure that many new Amphicar drivers have discovered that this approach isn’t any more effective in an amphibious car than it is in a Cessna 185 on floats. In fact, piloting an Amphicar in the water requires no more skill than steering a small boat. But there are unique “challenges.” For example, to launch an Amphicar into the water, you must either enter very slowly or very fast. Anything in between and you risk turning a 2300-pound lump of German steel into a submarine.  And after you’ve driven ashore, remember that the Amphi’s brakes don’t work; the drums and shoes are totally aslosh.

Drivers/helmsmen engage the Amphicar’s twin screws (no pun intended) via the two-speed transfer case. Unlike wooden or fiberglass boats, Amphicars have no natural buoyancy. If the convertible top and windows are down, an errant wake or sudden waves can turn a swimmer into a drowner. And heaven help the passengers who forget where they are and open a door. No wonder Amphicars have a secondary door-snugging handle to guard against this distinctly unnautical behavior.

The Amphicar’s 1950’s Triumph Herald pushrod four has a carburetor the size of a can of orange-juice concentrate and produces 43 hp. The Amphi’s zero-to-60 time is 43 seconds. (No, not 4.3 seconds, forty-three.) Maximum speed on water is seven miles per hour, while 70 mph on land (allegedly) is all you get. To paraphrase car reviewers in the day, the Amphicar “was a lousy car and a worse boat.” Or, as a lost-in-the-mists-of-history Car and Driver writer put it, “As a car, it handled like a boat.”

Yes, but– Mechanix Illustrated’s Tom McCahill understood the utter meaningless of the model’s on-road performance. He knew that owning an Amphicar made you the instant king of the lake. “Hey babe, wanta ride?”  Think about it.  Hot sun, summer vacation, beach, beer, bathing suits, a cool little car that turns into a boat with a back seat…what more do you need?

Once you pointed that puppy down the boat ramp and hit the water runnin’, no summertime honey would care about the Amphicar’s skid pad numbers or whether it could out-accelerate a Crosley Hotshot. Hell, you’re already halfway home. You’re in shorts trying to hide your wood and she’s wearing one of those new two-pieces called a bikini. You’re engaging the twin props and revving that suddenly throaty Triumph, she’s already what might as well be 80 percent undressed and is squealing that your cute little car is “far out.” That’s what we said in the‘60s.  It was the Age of Aquarius, and the Amphicar should have been its ride.

Most moderately restored Amphis go for $20k to $35k. The occasional garage queen pulls down $50k. When an Amphicar sold for just over $124k at last winter’s big Barrett-Jackson auction, it served as a prime example of what can happen when bidding fever overwhelms common sense.  Admittedly, the john did buy 12 other cars that day as well, so perhaps he thought he was bidding on an Amilcar.

Sometimes the photos don’t do a car justice. This is one of those times: the 2007 Chrysler Sebring is even uglier in the metal than it is in the photos. Hunting for a parking space last week, I had the bad luck to come upon a parked black 2007 Sebring in full production trim. Chrysler’s PR flacks gush that the new sedan is a “strikingly beautiful design” that’s “poised to inspire.”  They got the second part right. Chrysler fans are warned to look away as I share the fruits of my inspiration.

With the new Sebring, Chrysler’s designers have taken the art deco design cues that have made the Crossfire sports car such a rousing success (most depart dealer lots within a year of arriving) and transferred them onto the most cursed proportions in recent memory.  A rotund proboscis attached to a huge front overhang leads into a sweeping arched roofline that terminates in an abbreviated rear deck.  The Saturn ION employs similar proportions, as will the 2007 Nissan Sentra.  But Chrysler’s rendition is the worst of a bad bunch. 

Compare the Sebring to the 2003 Airflite concept that supposedly inspired it.  You know those made-for-TV movies that were supposedly “inspired by a true story?”  It’s the same deal: shared details, totally different result.  On the Airflite, the car’s nose is more chiseled and much less bulbous, the front wheel opening doesn’t crowd the front door opening and the roofline has more sweep and less arch.  The Airflite is strikingly beautiful.  The Sebring is an Airflite that’s totally let itself go.

Returning to the nose; round contours and huge, droopy headlights suggest a theme originally intended for a minivan, but later stretched for sedan duty.  As on the Crossfire, Chrysler’s stamped a half dozen grooves into the hood.  Perhaps they’re there for the dozen or so people who have lusted after a Crossfire, but did not buy one because they needed a back seat for the kiddies.

The doors are the best part of the design— by default.  As on the Pacifica, a deep undercut character line breaks up tall body sides. On the Crossfire, a character line that begins similarly performs a complicated transition from a concave to a convex surface. No awe-inspiring gymnastics here; just reasonably clean body sides whose sheerness conflicts with the blobby front fenders and amorphous rear lamps.

Sometimes when a car is designed, the designers and the engineers work at cross-purposes.  Bad proportions are one clue.  The window outline is another.  When the engineers fail to deliver the window outline the designers desire, the designers often “cheat”; they’ll tack on a black bit of trim to make it appear that the windows extend further than they do. It’s a nasty little trick that never works well: the automotive equivalent of heavy eye makeup. Then again, I once told a [long gone] girlfriend she might look better without so much eye makeup. When she stopped putting it on I realized why she'd been using so much. It’s like that with the new Sebring.

On a black car, like the one I saw, the black trim triangle disappears into the body. And, what do you know, my eyes wanted it back. Man, that’s one fat, ugly C-pillar.  Even if the window opening were as large as the designers wanted, the result still wouldn’t have looked good. The Sebring is only a couple inches taller than the Airflite, but those two inches, when combined with a seven-inch wheelbase reduction and a more conventionally-raked windshield, are passion killers. Like a pilot attempting an emergency landing on a short, alpine airstrip, the sweeping roofline must come down too far, too fast.  Seems the designers had given up on a graceful landing. They just wanted to land.

The Sebring’s designers apparently ran out of any ideas, good or otherwise, once they reached the Sebring’s literal end. The sedan’s large tail lamps could be from any one of the innocuously styled, utterly forgettable sedans of the late aero period. Their shapelessness bears some kinship to the droopy headlights, but none to the rear quarters in which they are embedded.

Overall, the Sebring appears to be the outcome of a “just get it done” mentality. It isn’t hard to guess the source of such a mentality: DaimlerChrysler ended its decades-old partnership with Mitsubishi, the provider of the new Sebring’s platform, during the sedan’s development. Designers and engineers often have trouble negotiating the compromises demanded by art, science, budgets and regulations.

Spreading the effort across two companies that were increasingly at odds must have exponentially compounded this difficulty. It’s a shame the divorce didn’t come sooner. Because it did not, we have the 2007 Sebring, a car so hard on the eyes it might single-handedly destroy Chrysler’s lingering reputation as a design leader.

[Michael Karesh operates www.truedelta.com, a vehicle reliability and price comparison website.] 

Remember when you got your first 64-count box of Crayola Crayons?  After inhaling the trademark smell, your eyes were dazzled, your left brain inspired by an eye-popping kaleidoscope of colors.  You never knew there were so many different shades of blue and yellow and red and green.  You could draw anything you wanted and you’d always have just the right color.  And when you started drawing cars – man!  That’s when you’d pull out all the best hues.  Never ecru or black or white or gray, though.  No way!  You always drew your dream cars in the brightest Technicolor hues you could find.  Too bad today’s designers don’t remember those fun times.

The next time you’re stuck in traffic, look around.  Check out how many vehicles have been painted in minor variations of the same generic colors.  Carmakers’ color palettes currently range from uninteresting to downright depressing.  The occasional vivid yellow or red stands out like a hooker at a Liberty University pep rally.  Visit any car lot and you’ll find yourself awash in a sea of black, white, silver, gray and beige.  If you want something a bit more vibrant, you’re probably out of luck; most car makers who offer reds, greens, or blues usually do so in the darkest shades possible.  Even if you find a manufacturer willing to serve up something brighter, chances are you’ll have to special order it.

Boldly colored cars drove off the automotive scene at about the same time as bold styling disappeared into a gaping sinkhole of mediocrity.  Starting in the late ‘70’s, automobiles– and their Armani-clad designers– began to look more and more alike.  As the “bean counters” took over from the “car guys,” designers began copying each other and, eventually, themselves.  Mass market motors went straight from bold to boxy to droopy to dull.  The trend to dreary colors moved in perfect synchronicity with the shift towards dreary styling.  The relentless excretion of cookie-cutter, cost-cutting crap continued into the ‘90’s and the new millennium.  And now, even though fresh thinking has finally appeared on the design front, color choices are still stuck in the ‘90’s.

When the distinctive colors disappeared, they took the distinctive graphics and trim packages with them.  I guess we’ve become too sophisticated to be seen in cars decked out with stripes or other graphics.  Sure, there are the one-size-fits-all graphics you see on the rice burners; the ones that look like someone slapped paint on with a broom.  Close but no cigar.  Graphics should be tailored to the design of the individual car, highlighting its lines and making a statement specific to that model’s character.  (Only the MINI “gets it.”)  Think of your favorite Detroit car from the ‘60’s or early ‘70’s.  Chances are it has distinctive graphics that complete the overall “look” for that particular model.

With a few notable (and expensive) exceptions, interiors are just as lackluster as the exteriors.  If you’re offered any choice at all, it’s usually between funereal black, sallow tan, or death-pallor gray.  Even cars lauded for their interiors use varying shades of these same colors, just in higher-quality materials, with better workmanship.  Why did they stop offering the reds, the greens, the blues?  Where is it written everything inside a car has to be the same color?   A few cheerful colors on the inside would help alleviate the claustrophobic cave effect so common to today’s cabins.  Surprisingly, the designers’ color blindness extends to their concept cars.   Auto shows offer the expectant public radical shapes and funky designs– in the same four uninteresting colors as their production cars: white, beige, gray or black.

Instead of coming up with exciting new colors, car makers take the easy way out.  They commission their marketing lackeys to think of exotic-sounding names for the same old colors.  So now you can get Abyss, Neptune, Alloy or French Silk instead of black, dark blue, gray or beige.  But as the Bard noted centuries ago, a rose by any other name is just as red (or something like that).  Call them what you like, they’re still the same old boring colors that make the automotive landscape meld into a miserable melange of monochromatic monotony.

What ever happened to the automobile as a vehicle for individual expression?  Where are Sassy Grass Green, Carousel Red, and Statutory Grape when we need them?  Why no modern equivalents to the John Player Specials, strobe stripes or screaming chicken graphics?  We need choice, we need flair, we need pizzazz!  We need to bring some vibrancy back into the picture.  Perhaps we should send every design studio a brand new 64-pack of Crayolas.  I reckon it’s time they got back in touch with their inner child.

Remember the Cougar? Not the oddly-shaped front-wheel drive Cougar of 2000 nor the big-bodied Thunderbird clone, nor even, God forbid, the huge sedans and wagons wearing “the sign of the cat,” but the 1967 original? Motor Trend’s Car of the Year was created from the Mustang. While it shared the Pony Car’s platform, it was NOT a badge-engineering model. Sales of the luxurious new coupe helped to lead the Blue Oval to some of the most profitable years in the company’s history. Hello? Ford? Anyone home?

It’s been a couple of years since the latest generation Mustang hit the streets. The retro modern two-door is a runaway success, easily out-selling the nondescript sedans that have become Ford’s standard bearers. At the same time, the Mercury brand languishes, offering customers nothing more than thinly-disguised Ford sedans and trucks. It’s time, past time, for the new Mercury Cougar. Stretch the new Mustang platform, drape it with drop-dead gorgeous sheetmetal, stuff it full of luxury (and a hundred pounds more sound insulation) and there you have it: a slam dunk sales winner and a halo car for a moribund brand.

In fact, there’s only one way a new Cougar wouldn’t work: if Ford re-sculpts the ‘Stang’s front and rear, tacks on some brightwork and badges the Mustang as a Cougar. That Milanese-style product would dilute the Mustang’s appeal AND fail to create a compelling reason for luxury car buyers to darken Mercury’s already dim door. An ersatz Cougar would drag the brand’s street cred even lower– if such a thing was possible. No; while a new Cougar would bring glory to a deeply wounded brand, it must be done right, or not at all.

A Cougar absolutely demands arresting styling. Since Ford’s hometown designers seem singularly incapable of creating anything other than boring and innocuous cars, why not call in Aston Design Director Marek Reichman, the man who penned the sublime Aston Martin Rapide? As PETA and other animal rights activists have made it virtually impossible for a big cat to work in the ad business, Mercury could make the Brit-born designer the brand’s official spokesman. “Aston Martin elegance made in America” would be a winning slogan.

Anyone who’s been fortunate enough to spend some quality seat time in a Land Rover, or a top-spec F150, knows that Ford can make great interiors. To produce a suitably luxurious Cougar, Ford could add luxury touches to the Mustang’s cockpit that aren’t available in the ‘Stang: automatic temperature control, twilight sentinel headlights, memory seats, sat nav and all the other luxury car necessities. Ford knows exactly how to do all these things, and I’m sure that they have the hardware on the Lincoln shelf to boot. If the new Cougar wants a “killer ap,” they could even fit it with a Borg-Warner dual-clutch paddle-shift transmission (a.k.a. Audi’s DSG).

A new Cougar could be Mercury’s re-entry into racing. If the Ford Fusion and a Toyota Camry can be NASCAR racers, surely the Cougar could be as well. Perhaps LeMans would be a better venue. After all, that’s where Aston Martin made their reputation. If Corvettes and Vipers can make a credible attempt, surely a Cougar, with the right preparation, could at least make a showing. The combination of a stunning design and the hype of a [properly promoted] racing effort would ramp up the excitement at Mercury dealerships to unseen levels.

Equally important, a “real” Cougar wouldn’t be a horrifically expensive endeavor for the cash-strapped domestic automaker. There’s nothing wrong with the Mustang platform that a little refinement couldn’t cure. Adding the aforementioned four inches to the wheel base would give the coupe passable rear seat room. The Mustang GT already has a two-piece driveshaft, so lengthening drive shafts shouldn’t pose a problem. Ford’s 4.6-liter, 300-horse, 24-valve V8 would be more than adequate. (The new Shelby GT500 powerplant would be a bonus.) All the engine really needs is a little more muffler, a little less intake and a lot more purr. And there’s plenty of room at the new AutoAlliance International assembly plant in Flat Rock, Michigan to build a “real” Cougar.

If Mercury had a Cougar, it might begin to look like the brand has a future, instead of simply surviving on life-support from Ford. It’s not a question of whether or not there’s a market for a “proper” American luxury coupe; there are more than enough foreign players in this niche to prove its potential viability. It’s not a question of money; a new Cougar needn’t start from scratch. It’s a question of will. When a brand loses its luster within the Ford Empire, it lacks champions to snatch back the resources it needs to grow. In car manufacture as in life, everything either grows or dies. Over to you Mr. Bill.

Twenty years ago, if one were to trying to describe the differences in the various models from Mercedes-Benz, it would be something along the lines of “just like the big, boring sedan, only bigger / smaller.” No longer. The Japanese, once viewed as nothing more than a bunch of Pacific-rim wet smack upstarts who would NEVER produce a viable competitor to the established German marques, have changed the rules of the game. Not only do the Asian prestige brands have a stranglehold on quality, but some of them are starting to actually look pretty, too. Uh oh. Seems time to swim upstream, mein freund.

The late 20th century's over, thankfully. So there's no longer any need for the well-heeled or arriviste consumers to apologize for– or even make motions to conceal– conspicuous consumption. Why speak softly and carry a big stick when you can afford a bullhorn and bazooka? To that end, Mercedes' S-Class is finally showing signs of emerging from its identity crisis. The biggest, most expensive car in the lineup OUGHT to provoke an almost apoplectic concupiscence, right? It should be the knockout; the brick house.
Ostensibly then, the big S is the model driving the styling direction of the company– though Audi never seemed to get on board with that theory, and Bavarian Motor Works is busy back-pedaling. But if the S550 is the thrust, then I'm afraid it bodes ill for the rest of the range. In a diametric flip-flop worthy of the Bush administration's foreign policy, Mercedes has gone from being a company that couldn't get the front-end right to one that botches the tail.

The S550’s nose is merely standard-issue Mercedes boilerplate, hobbled somewhat with the need for a more upright grille area to comply with European pedestrian crash safety standards. Like any efficient courtesan, however, the front-end styling saves all the excitement for below the belt, where an interesting grouping of shapes is at play. (Dare I say racy?) I enjoy the way the styling folks at Mercedes make a single molded plastic unit look as though it’s composed of impossibly tight-fitting separate bits; it’s perceived quality– perhaps just shy of fictive– but nice.

No doubt about it, this is a big car. By all indications, there was a stalemate as to whether or not to emphasize that fact from the side. Gone are the days of the legendary Mercedes flying phallus wedge, in favor of something a little more nympholeptic. Hey, I’m all for getting in touch with the feminine side, but then why the positively congested wheel arches? That conceit didn’t even work for the hysterically hyper-styled ML55 and that was a truck, guys! I half expect the S550 to suppurate brake fluid out all four corners onto my Bruno Maglis. Elevate it and give it a cold compress, please.

And while you’re at it, save some of that avant-garde for the side mirrors. Mercedes, the company that integrated turn-signals into the mirror housings (most visibly, at least) has moved on. That’s okay… The Volkswagen group is more than happy to pay attention to detail opportunities like these. Oh dear, oh dear. Now the rear.

Across the board, this used to be Mercedes’ strong suit. No matter how insouciant the stylists were with the front, you could always count on there being a tight little hiney. Like the view of the people on the beach at St. Tropez, the rear 3/4 was usually the view of preference. At best, the S550’s taillight treatment is breathtakingly boring and weak; at worst, it’s a shameless attempt to forge a link to Mercedes’ own Maybach. Granted, the S500 ain’t cheap, but precious few will confuse the money-for-money’s-sake empyrean Maybach with something from the three pointed star, taillights be damned.

Inside the S550, corporate jet is the current styling dictum, what with all the scalloped seatbacks and offset lighting. Air travel always conjured-up impressions of leg cramps and sinus infections to me, but I fly coach. Not so the ones buttering the S550’s bread, and it shows with impressive materials, most of which take great pains to project quality. Apart from the somewhat overwrought sweeping dashboard shape (an unfortunate Mercedes trend, likely to continue), the sum of the parts works toward a pretty convincing whole. And thank the maker that the S550’s interior stylists have rediscovered chrome switchgear, because Mercedes’ suppliers can’t seem to wrap their minds around the concept of soft-touch, good looking plastic. My advice? Stick with what you know…

So for those with the 8-digit income (7-digit is SO three-scandals-ago) who wish to hurtle along in apollonian splendor, Mercedes presents the thoroughly competent, if not particularly cohesive, S550. Nobody emerges from an identity crisis fully intact, but then of course we won’t know for sure until the swelling goes down.

And so it's time to ask Mr. Fisker the obvious question: what's the ugliest car in the world? Although the former Ford design jeffe and current coachbuilder to chronically over-monied car collectors provides the obvious answer, it's nice to know that Pontiac has earned its place in automotive infamy for all time. As for yesterday's question– would you pay $300k for a re-skinned Merc or Bimmer– it's a dead heat. Your email could tip the balance. And it won't cost a dime.

Once upon a time, wealthy people didn't just pop down to their local Ferrari dealer, pick-up an Enzo and ask for their change in F430's. They commissioned a coachbuilder to add bespoke sheetmetal, fixtures and fittings to a suitable manufacturer's underpinnings. This trend created some wild ass whips, usually ascribed to the builder who provided the greasy bits. Not only is ex-BMW, ex-Ford designer Henrik Fisker determined to resurrect the whole coachbuilding thing, but the man wants name brand recognition. Well, fair enough. But would you buy a reskinned Merc or Bimmer for north of $300k? Answers on an email please. Or wait for part two, tomorrow.