I like Cadillac. Theirs is the perfect American success story: a failing luxury car company saved by hard work, clever engineering and gang bangers. By now, the brothers' mainline manufacturer is safe and the word is out: Cadillac is back, and it's bling. Even old white men in shiny shoes know that the Escalade is all that, the XLR is dope, the CTS is fly, and the SRX is SWASS (Some Wild Ass Silly Shit). So why-oh-why did Caddy brew up this four-wheeled Forty Dog?

For some reason, they based the STS' design on the arrow-sharp CTS– minus the sharp. While the STS' front and back ends retain a welcome measure of the CTS' aggression, the overall result looks like a fat mobster in a Brioni suit. The STS' sloping swage lines and ever-so-slightly bulging wheel arches can't disguise the fact that it's a slab-sided luxobarge from the old school, with all the blingosity of a Lincoln Town Car. Granted, that may have been the point: to build a luxury car conservative enough for Cadillac's traditional clientele, yet– no wait, that's it; that's the whole story.

Sports car drivers are fetishists. Where a normal person looks at the new Porsche 911 Carrera's front end and sees a pair of headlights, an enthusiast instantly discovers that The Sultans of Stuttgart have ditched the "fried egg" shape of the previous 911's illumination, and returned to the old air-cooled car's circular headlamps. Porsche-philes will also clock the subtly reshaped nose, and the new, tidier headlight spritzers. It's sad, but the 911 does that to people. The Carrera is one of those rare machines that can turn a disinterested driver into a raving car nerd.

It's not about looks. The appeal of the 911's gently evolving design is more or less lost on the non-cognoscenti. There's no question that this, the latest 911 iteration, is more attractive than the one it replaces, even if it's difficult to identify the exact cause (the smart money is on the wasp-waisted flanks and purposeful rump). Still, as beautiful as it is, the revised shape is no radical departure, no newfound siren song to lure converts into the 911 fold. No; the essence of the Carrera's transformative powers lies behind the wheel.

Jeep's latest ads ask SUV buyers to believe that the new Grand Cherokee is a pleasure to drive on-road. It's a stunning example of "the big lie" (people are more likely to believe a massive deception than a little one). If there's one thing that the heavily revised Grand Cherokee does badly– like any two-ton SUV– it's handle on-road. The SUV floats alarmingly over dips and crests, shudders disturbingly over bumps and holes, and leans precipitously through the twisties. I'd no sooner blast a Grand Cherokee around a sharp corner than I'd drive an Enzo on the Rubicon.

Ah, the Rubicon. Also known as the McKinney-Rubicon Springs Road, the unpaved trail runs 12 miles through California's rugged High Sierra Mountains. On the official off-roaders' difficulty scale of one to 10, the boulder-strewn, gully-infested Rubicon rates a 24. (As one veteran mud plugger puts it, the only part of a vehicle that's not likely to break on the Con is the radiator cap.) To qualify as "trail rated", a Jeep product must have enough traction, ground clearance, maneuverability, articulation and water fording to tackle the Rubicon.

The great American SUV migration began in the station wagon. And why not? The land yachts of yore were foul-handling, gas-guzzling, fundamentally unsafe beasts. Trading them for taller, foul-handling, gas-guzzling, fundamentally unsafe beasts made perfect sense. The baby had a better view. And, to be fair, a flying disc offered better snow traction than a rear-wheel-drive station wagon. The genre's extinction was little mourned– especially by teenagers unfortunate enough to pick up a date in one.

Of course, times have changed. The all-conquering SUV is now PC poison, a pariah amongst the chattering classes. Enter, stage left, the Dodge Magnum. To lure mainstream America out of their SUVs, the Dark Lords of DCX have transformed the creaky Conestoga of our collective past into something infinitely more capable, stylish and desirable. The result could signal the much-anticipated death of the SUV.

I'm sitting at a traffic light on a nine-lane road bisecting a blight of car dealers, warehouse eateries and chain stores. My opponent is driving a white Elantra with almost enough body mods to disguise its humble origins, but not quite. I can hear the Hyundai's hamster wheel whining over the top of the Mustang's bellowing V8. Clearly, the Korean whip has about as much chance of outrunning the GT as an octogenarian jogger. And yet Elantra Boy is determined to get it on.

OK, I'll admit it: I had it in for the Mercedes Benz C320 Sport even before it hit the drive. After my review of the C55 AMG, MB USA made it abundantly clear that they were unhappy with my opinion of the class from which it sprang. The suits viewed the C-Class as "prestige lite": a gateway drug to their bigger, better products. I saw the model line as a range of glorified German taxis for itinerant badge snobs. So when the C320 Sport Sedan arrived, I was ready to add fuel to my pyre.

The truth of the matter proved elusive. As soon as I found something to hate about the car, I'd discover something I liked. For example, the C320 Sport looks about as aggressive as a Dodge Caravan. The C's tiny mesh grill, petite rear spoiler and single chrome exhaust pipe are a pathetic attempt to inject sporting intent into a thoroughly banal shape. But the sedan is perfectly sized for spirited driving: low, small and relatively narrow.

Applebee's. Outback. Red Lobster. Mediocre eateries are carpet-bombing America's landscape with the sort of scorched-earth expansionist verve that would chafe Sam Walton. How is that, exactly? To a chain, most such restaurants have been designed to look, feel, and taste the same regardless of locale. Accidental tourists who dined in a Scranton Ruby Tuesday's have a sporting chance of finding the bathroom in the Seattle franchise without asking the waitstaff. Outsized, filling portions dominate, with the quantities served constituting something of an apology for the food itself. And yet, to gorge oneself stupid on basket after basket of Riblets is to leave feeling strangely bloated and unsatisfied.

So it is with Ford's new Five Hundred. Make no bones about it: Dearborn's 'Year of the Car' centerpiece is no gourmet's feast. More to the point, the Five Hundred is a blandly flavored proposition inside and out, enticing consumers on portion size, a smorgasbord of ingredients and a low price point. Like the themed restaurants in front of which it will inevitably park, the Five-Hundred is a blatant attempt to appeal to the lowest-common denominator, blueprinted to offend as few as possible.

Pontiac's ads proudly proclaim that their latest sports sedan is "the first ever G6"– as if the company somehow beat its competitors to build a G6. Which is what exactly? A car that gets 100 miles per gallon? Brings peace to the Middle East? Self-replicates? We all know the G6's REAL claim to fame: it's the first automobile personally bestowed upon every member of a studio audience by a chat show Queen, under false pretences. (Pontiac provided the vehicles, Oprah took the credit, recipients didn't like the taxes.) Otherwise, the G6 is a standard sort of car.

Come to think of it, that IS a major breakthrough. Pontiac has been making sub-standard cars for decades: front-wheel-drive machines with asthmatic engines, no handling and even less build quality. [NB: The new GTO is an Australian import.] The idea that GM's nominal performance division could create a machine that can hold its own in a class filled with talented, well-established Japanese contenders is about as credible as cold fusion. And yet, here it is.

Imagine you've driven 165mph in a Volkswagen Phaeton W12 on a derestricted German autobahn. Now imagine you're driving a Porsche Carrera GT (CGT) on a three-lane American highway with no traffic, one mile visibility and perfect weather. Do you put the hammer down and try to better your personal land speed record, despite the obvious risk to life and license? Do ya? Do ya punk?

Well, of course not. That kind of egocentric accelerative exuberance would be criminally irresponsible, regardless of the conditions. Anyway, your [imaginary] right foot rests atop an accelerator hot wired to a 605hp, race-bred, V10 engine. The car holstering this brute weighs just 3043lbs. It's a Porsche. So what the Hell, you muck about a bit, change gears, play around with the throttle, that kind of thing. I mean why not? It's not like you're headed for work or anything.

Once upon a time, a car's identity was buried deep in its DNA. In these days of multinational parts and platform sharing, brands are born in a marketing memo, then programmed onto a computer chip. Even the most discerning car hack struggles to tell where a Mercedes SLK ends and a Chrysler Crossfire begins. All of which begs the question: is the Bentley Continental GT, the company's first all-new model since Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated– sorry, since Volkswagen bought the firm, a 'real' Bentley?

Hell if I know. The GT was my first close encounter with the Bentley brand. But I'll tell you this: you can be ambling down the highway in a Continental GT, doing nothing more strenuous than listening to right wing radio, look down at the speedo and see 120 on the clock, no problem. If "GT" stands for "Grand Tourer", no car does it better.

Except maybe a VW Phaeton. As one of the few people who's driven Vee Dub's commercially questionable flagship equipped with a W12 engine, I can report that the shared powerplant accounts for much of the Bentley's charm. Tread lightly on the go-pedal and both cars will saunter through town as happily as a recently elected mayor. Mash the gas, and both machines will accelerate deep into triple digits like a [very heavy] thing possessed.

Of course, the twin turbo, 552-horse Bentley is significantly faster than its sister under the skin. The blown Bentley will scoot to sixty in 4.7 seconds, and on to a V-max of, I kid you not, 198mph. But the GT's basic nature– the way it piles on the speed in a single, seamless lunge– is the same; and there's nothing wrong with that.

Actually, there is. The world's most compact 12-cylinder engine produces aural Prozac. Despite Bentley's attempts to tune the exhaust note to suit the brand's sporting aspirations, the GT's engine has all the sonic sex appeal of a pixilated race car from a '70's arcade game. It's loud at idle, loud under load and… that's it. Considering the company's long tradition of stuffing big-block baritone V8's into the engine bay, the variable decibel drone is a major disappointment.

In the corners, the GT is fast and… that's it. Thanks to Audi's four-wheel-drive system, the baby Bentley dispatches long sweepers with mindless ease. But, as you'd expect, throwing the 5250-pound two-door into a sharp corner is a less than relaxing pursuit. If nothing else, the GT's fingertip light steering makes initial turn-in and mid-corner adjustment a very tricky business. Anyway, why bother? The Bentley is about as suited to thrashing as a Lotus Elise is to long road trips.

Oh, and it may seem churlish to mention it, but the Continental GT guzzles gas like an alcoholic aristocrat quaffing Dom. In semi-hooligan mode, I burned a gallon of dead dinosaur every 7.4 urban miles. An extended session of interstate cruising managed to double the figure– just. Again, who cares? Stateside, the flying "B" above the radiator gives owners a free pass from any social and/or environmental obligation. And that's why the GT's sheet metal and interior, rather than its on-road dynamics, ultimately define the car's character.

Bentley's new owners worked hard to imbue their muscle coupe with brand-specific styling cues (e.g. twin headlights of varying size). To my eyes, the overall design looks like a squished, angular version of an Aston Martin Vanquish. The GT's shape, though vaguely British, lacks cohesion. In particular, the sharp creases on either side of the hood make the prow look as if it was formed by a Play-Do shape cutter. I reckon the Chrysler 300C is a better looking Bentley. But hey, that's me. Most people consider the GT a suitably British "gentleman's express".

Once inside, the olfactory sense overwhelms aesthetic sensibility. Every inch of the GT's cabin that isn't covered with piano-grade wood or satin finish aluminum or what was once Wilton carpet is slathered in perfectly-stitched, glove soft, dizzyingly fragrant leather. I reckon the GT's immaculate upholstery is the car's finest hour, in perfect keeping with Britain's bespoke tailoring tradition.

From there, it's straight back to the Fatherland. The GT's main display screen and attendant buttons are lifted straight from the Phaeton. All the switches– even the signature "organ stop" vent controls– work with Germanic precision. And in case you missed the point, the words "Made in Germany" are written in large type at the base of the cigarette lighter.

Is that a bad thing? Is it fair to diss the GT simply because it didn't evolve from the brand's original DNA? That depends. If you believe an automobile should reflect the engineering and design gestalt of its native land, then no, we shouldn't impugn this mighty machine. The Bentley Continental GT is a truly superb German automobile.

The Chevrolet SSR is a two-seat pickup truck with a folding metal hardtop that drives like a– hold on a second. Where did THAT idea come from? “Hey guys, what we haven’t built yet? How about a convertible pickup truck!” Normally, corporate bean counters file such creative flights of fancy under “H”, for “Humor them and they’ll design a car we can sell to the rental companies”. But lo and behold, here it is! So, um, what is it?

The first time I gave the Ford GT's go-pedal a really hard shove, I discovered that it's one of those rare cars that can transform its pilot into a passenger. In other words, when I dipped my right foot that little bit too far towards the floor, I found myself hanging on, rather than driving.

The 2005 Dodge Grand Caravan SXT is a bland, blend-into-traffic ovoid. Despite ten years of mechanical innovation and evolution, the Dodge (and its sibling the Chrysler Town & Country) is still a dead ringer for the very first minivan. It still has about as much road presence as a Budget rental car.

Even so, the Grand Caravan has a message for all those NASCAR dads and soccer moms who left ten-foot-pole marks on the genre, opting for the go-anywhere machismo of towering, gas-guzzling sport-utes: come back, all is forgiven. If you can get over your image issues, the SXT is by the better beast for real-world parenting. Let's start with soccer…

The Audi TT isn't so much a sports car as a handbag on wheels. I'm not saying TT drivers are girly men. The difference between a dignified brief case and an adorable handbag is style, not utility. But let's face it: the TT is a fashion statement first, a car second. Admirers are less likely to ask "What'll she do?" than "Do I detect a hint of Bauhaus in the design?"

You do. Eighty five years ago, artists trained at The Bauhaus School created some of the world's first "modern" art. Their work still looks avant-garde– which is a fancy way of saying it's cold, stark and a bit spooky. Audi's bulbous sports car fits this description to a TT. Its push-me, pull-you symmetry and lack of ornamentation are about as emotionally engaging as a leather and chrome church pew.

The fact that the test car was a roadster in retina-searing yellow didn't ease my back-to-the-future shock. Luckily, the TT's all-black interior provided the usual Audi Zen, upholding the company's reputation for ergonomic excellence, quality materials and faultless build. Grabbing the perfectly formed steering wheel, nestling into the sports seat (complete with baseball glove-style stitching), I could just about forget that I had "style victim" tattooed on my forehead.

The demo TT came equipped with four-wheel-drive and the manufacturer's latest engine and drivetrain combo: a 3.2-liter six-cylinder powerplant married to a hi-tech DSG (Direct Shift Gearbox). Until the heavily revamped, all-aluminum TT arrives in '06, this iteration is as good, well, as fast, as it gets. When taking the 3.2 DSG TT out for a romp, there are three ways to engage the engine. Stick the autobox in Drive, pull the lever down a notch for Sport, or shove it sideways and play with the wheel-mounted paddles. It's a mission critical decision.

'D' is the least satisfying option. Whether you're asserting your masculinity at a traffic light or establishing your accelerative dominance with a little in-gear passing action, the TT in "Drive" is not exactly what I'd call responsive. Give the go-pedal a proper pasting and you're confronted by what the Germans describe as a gedenkminute ("thinking pause"). The engine hunts for horses and the front tires scrabble for purchase. Once the four-wheel-drive system kicks in and the revs ascend, you're off and away. Thank God.

"S" cures the problem– and how. In Sport mode, the autobox held my gear so long I begin to wonder about the TT's mechanical warranty. It's Audi's way to get enthusiastic drivers to max power (250hp arrives just a toe flex away from redline, at 6300rpms). You pay for your on-demand thrust with constant engine scream and head-snapping throttle response. Only the most committed speed merchant would use the Sport setting on anything other than a wide-open country road.

Last, but by no means least, you can swap cogs by employing the mechanical meisterwerk that is Audi's DSG. Here, finally, is a paddle shift system you can use without the slightest regard to speed, rpms or common sense. To change up a gear, pull the right flipper. To change down a cog, pull the left. No matter when you do the deed, no matter how many times you tap the downshift paddle, the gearbox sorts it all out for you. There's no possibility of over-revving the engine or getting bogged down as the electronics try to execute your commands. No other sports car offers such a fast and effective paddle shift system. If the TT's V6 had more bottom end torque, if the engine could pick-up speed from lower revs, the DSG system would be nothing short of a revelation. But it doesn't, so we're talking about a car that drives like a motorcycle with a button shifter.

Oh well. Never mind. The TT's handling just about makes up for it. It's hard to believe the TT was once slated as a death car (which accounts for the late addition of a Bauhaus-perverting, downforce-inducing rear wing). Short of closing your eyes and putting your hands on your head, there's virtually no way to lose control of a four-wheel-drive TT. Go around a bend too fast and the tires squeal, the chassis does a superbly coordinated four-wheel-drift, you lose speed and… that's it.

Audi claims the 3.2 TT sprints to sixty in 5.7 seconds. But it's the TT's ability to carry its speed through the corners that makes it such a nippy little beast. The operative word here being "little"; the 3.2 TT lacks the grown-up, unstressed feel of its natural rival: the Porsche Boxster. Still, if you're an urban aesthete who owns (but never uses) a designer chair, the TT is your perfect set of wheels. Just order it with the 225hp four-cylinder engine and six-speed manual gearbox. Anything more is needless affectation.

Yes, it's another one of those lumbering leviathans whose sole purpose in life is to Hoover-up the world's precious oil reserves and belch-out planet killing hydrocarbons– until and unless it mows down a bunch of blameless economy car drivers. Actually, Nissan designed the full-size Pathfinder Armada SUV to transport seven/eight people in comfort, safety and style. So let's cut the automaker a bit of slack, delete the letter combo "PC" from the PC and get on with it, shall we?

It's not as easy as it sounds. C'mon, an "Armada"? Didn't anyone have the cojones to remind Nissan Supremo Carl Ghosn that the word "armada" has been a synonym for naval military disaster since 1588? Granted, the average American's knowledge of European maritime history is only slightly better than their grasp of nuclear particle physics. But it's still an inauspicious name– especially for families mounting an amphibious assault on their local pool.