So there we were, barreling down the highway in a Lincoln Navigator. The music on the DVD suddenly swelled, filling the cavernous SUV with orchestral thunder. The kids were watching The Pirates of the Caribbean; the bit where Captain Jack Sparrow enters the harbor on a sinking skiff. Although the scene is played for laughs, the music is magnificent: grand yet lyrical, suffused with romance and adventure. Grasping the big Lincoln's wood and leather helm, I felt like the captain of a huge vessel heading for the open sea. At that moment, the SUV's enormous size and endless creature comforts made perfect sense. I was piloting a first-class ship of the line: safe, fast and well-provisioned. The only cloud on the horizon was…

The Sierra Club. SUVs may own the road, but Gaia's guys and their media minions have captured the moral high ground. Where unlimited consumerism was once considered a good thing, Americans are now instructed that their family truck triggers global warming, kills Bambi and endangers US troops. Never mind that many anti-SUV crusaders live in air-conditioned mansions with heated pools. SUVs are bad. The bigger they are, the badder they be.

I swear I had no intention of performing a drifting demonstration outside my step-daughter's school gates. In a prior attempt to gain a little mid-corner throttle control, I'd switched off the computerized handling Nanny. And then forgot all about it. So when I attempted to merge with the after-camp traffic, I suddenly found myself laying down a good 20 feet of rubber, in a decidedly sideways fashion.

Needless to say, that was not an example of driving in the traditional Mercedes manner. One wafts in one's Merc. But let's face facts: the C-Class appeals to a younger, thrustier demographic. Turning a plain Jane C into a demented German hot rod can't piss away the model's air of emotionally reserved exclusivity– it never had any in the first place. So it's damn the brand, full speed ahead!

Here's the thing: the 2004 Honda Civic Si has already been written off. Somehow, the car that popped the cherry for America's import racers has become an also-ran, outgunned by a new generation of high-horsepower compacts like the Subaru WRX and Dodge SRT-4. Honda's legendary hatchback now finds itself in an awkward and unfamiliar position: on the outside looking in. So is it time to say 'Sayonara' to the Si?

Naming a sports car an "S2000" was not an auspicious start for Honda's open-top pocket rocket. It probably sounded way cool at the time, but it's SO four years ago. And yet the little roadster still has its supporters. Earlier this year, Car and Driver magazine included the Honda in their "10 Best Cars", calling it "pure and involving". Me, I call it old and aggravating.

I find the average pickup truck’s buckboard ride and apple cart handling a constant source of wonder. If they can put a man on the moon, why can’t they put the lunar rover’s suspension on a pickup truck? Yes, I know: if you want to carry heavy things, coil/leaf suspension is your only option. But why would anyone who doesn’t schlep stuff for a living actually choose to drive a pickup?

Toyota claims the xB is "all about attitude". Roger that. Anyone willing to drive a van that causes children to point and laugh– and let's be clear about this: the kids are laughing AT the xB, not WITH it—needs a bullet-proof 'tude. Maybe that's why Toyota markets the xB under its youth-oriented Scion brand: the company reckons that only the arrogance of youth could protect an xB owner from the constant snorts of derision garnered by this, this, thing. And yet…

Unlike the Pontiac Aztek, an SUV so gruesome it turns onlookers to stone, the xB is not a heavy-handed pastiche. Sure, there's a bit of bread van, a touch of funeral hearse, a soupcon of the old mini, a hint of an industrial air conditioning unit. But the xB is what it is, in a non-apologetic kind of way. If you like owning something "distinctive", well, Scion's boxy four-door is certainly that. The xB is at least as visually arresting as a Ferrari, Bentley or Aston— for $14k.

Find an open stretch of highway, floor the Mercedes S55 and you'll soon know what it means to kompress the time/space continuum. There's a small pause and a gentle jerking sensation– as the five-speed gearbox kicks down and the supercharger spools up. And then the AMG-fettled sedan launches itself at the horizon with a single, seamless blast of forward thrust. Any doubt that the massive S55 can obliterate time with acceleration dissipates the moment you watch the speedo arc gracefully past 140 miles per hour, and keep on going.

I guess that's what happens when the Württemberg Wirbelwinds stuff 493 horses and 516ft.-lbs. of torque under the hood of an S-Class sedan. Even in these horsepower mad times, when a stock pickup truck can out-drag a 60's Ferrari, that's a lot of grunt. It's enough shove to put Mercedes' 5.5-liter V8-powered leviathan on a par with a Porsche 911. (Both sprint from 0 to 60 in 4.6 seconds.) No wonder the technician who builds the S55's supercharged powerplant signs his name on the engine; Guido Nordheim wants you to know who owns your adrenal glands.

Pistonheads believe cars have personality, character and yes, soul. Putting the pedal to the metal in a Cadillac CTS-V, it's hard not to agree. The 5.7-liter powerplant bellows, the tires squirm and the V charges at the horizon with all the determination of an enraged bull heading for a matador's cape. Redline Caddy's 400-horse four-door and she'll give you everything she's got. And man, she's got a lot. The V rockets from zero to sixty in 4.7 seconds and completes the ¼ mile in 13.1. If the V was a bull, I'd want to be one very fast matador.

Amazingly, the CTS-V is not all about brute force. Unlike its rip-snorting cousins– the Dodge Viper, Chevrolet Corvette and Dodge SRT10– the V is a seriously agile whip. As hard as it is to comprehend, the CTS-V, a Cadillac, could well be America's finest handling car. Yes folks, it's true: Detroit has finally produced a car to rival a BMW.

Here's a question: why would anyone want a pickup truck that accelerates from 0 to 60 in 5.2 seconds? Don't most people prefer a flatbed that's comfortable or practical or reliable or fuel efficient or… something other than monstrously quick? What's the point of a Porsche-killing pickup?

Bragging rights. Drivers of the Dodge Ram SRT-10 bask in the knowledge that they're behind the wheel of the world's fastest pickup truck. And by God, they want everyone to know it. And by God, they will. Anyone who stands eyeball-to-eyeball with an SRT-10 will be in no doubt that The Dodge Boys' uber-pickup is in a league of its own.

Every now and then a car comes along that turns convention on its head. Cadillac's CTS-V is a perfect example. Who would have thought that the foremost proponent of the floaty-drifty school of handling would produce a sports sedan with sharper reflexes than a BMW 5-Series? The Chrysler 300C is another case in point. The last thing you'd expect from Daimler Chrysler, a traditional Detroit automaker with German masters, is a bad-ass gangsta-mobile.

The 300C was built for a drive-by shooter. Its narrow, high-set windows look more like gun slits than casements. Its gigantic "egg crate" prow projects a distinct air of physical menace. Slab sides, sharp creases and sheer bulk complete the "urban assault vehicle" design theme. Not to put too fine a point on it, what player wouldn't want to roll up in a car with such stylish malevolence?

The instant you fire-up BMW's new 645Ci, a chime buried deep in the dash rings out. "BLING!" In fact, it does it twice: BLING! BLING! Point taken. From its backlit kick panels, to the chrome "eyelids" over the kidney-shaped grills, to the gigantic wheels and tires filling massive, flared arches, the 645Ci boasts more street style than a Bronx block party. The hard-top 6 seeks a home with BMW's traditional Euro-snob consumers, but the drop-top 6 wants to chill on the driveway of one of MTV's crib-tastic celebs.

And why not? Forget all that wind-in-the-hair BS. Anyone who's actually owned a convertible knows the genre is an open invitation to sunburn, sunstroke, earache, deafness, bad hair and (lest we forget) decapitation. Convertibles are all about posing. A $76k Bimmer cabriolet is, by its very nature, a technological tour de force. But it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that bling.

Like I said, the 645Ci is all that. A large part of the car's gangsta chic is down to BMW's infamous "flame surfacing": the exterior style currently afflicting the 5 and 7-Series. This time it works. The 645Ci's farrago of bulges, curves, creases, cuts and canvas is so odd, so utterly different depending on the viewing angle, even jaundiced car reviewers find themselves staring in silent wonder. Sure, the design will date faster than a theoretically divorced Brad Pitt. Meanwhile, the 645Ci's eye-candy street cred reigns supreme.

If onlookers somehow manage to miss the point, just press the roof button. Mercedes may have invented the flipping, turning, rotating and stowing tin top routine, but the 645Ci's canvas version is no less impressive, and you get a heated glass window that pops back up to [slightly] deflect unwelcome wind. How dope is that?

So why is the 645Ci's cabin as austere as a monk's cell? iDrive. The universally reviled mouse controller replaces the ever-mounting array of switches and dials needed to control a luxury car's festival of toys, which leaves… nothing much. BMW's designers have made ample use of this nothing much, spreading it around the cabin evenly, blending it with black plastic, leather and brushed aluminum; to no appreciable effect whatsoever. No props to them, then.

Hopefully, BMW will extend its "Individual" program to the 645Ci. Discerning buyers could then bling-up their convertible Beemer with, say, orange leather seats, a champagne leather dash and piano-finished black interior trim stripes. Given the 654Ci's funereal functionalism and the drop-top driver's need to show off, even the oddest choices are bound to make perfect sense.

You may have noticed that I haven't said a word about what it's like to drive the 645Ci. So here's the word: numb. Numb steering. Numb gearbox. Numb chassis. Numb brakes.

I've got nothing against numb cars. Mercedes originally earned my affection by building luxury transportation so completely devoid of sensation you felt as if you'd beamed yourself to your destination. But times have changed; even Lexus offers drivers a dose of road feel (albeit highly filtered). You'd hardly expect BMW, self-proclaimed provider of the "ultimate driving machine", to create a car that harkens back to the glory days of brain-dead luxo-barges.

The 645Ci's engine adds to the sense of disappointment– because it's so good. The 4.4-liter V8 is a bit sluggish (numb?) at low revs, but once it inhales a proper hit of gas, it's like rousting a lion with a pointy stick. Thanks to a 'variable-effect resonator' in the exhaust system, the soundtrack switches from contented purr to demented roar, and the 645Ci leaps into action.

Zero to sixty takes six seconds – not bad for a car weighing over two tons. The company claims their all aluminum powerplant gets the job done with just 325hp, but I'd swear The Boys from Bavaria are hiding an extra 50 horses somewhere. Again, you've got to stoke the engine above 3600rpms to gain access to maximum shove (330ft.-lbs. of torque), but once you do, you'll be glad you did.

Until you come to a corner. The weird thing is that the 645Ci actually corners quite well. Its Active Roll Stabilization system tightens-up the big Bimmer's roll bars on the appropriate side to create astounding poise through the curves. But there's no joy in it. Remote control steering, stiff run-flats and a no-motion chassis makes it nearly impossible to judge what the car is up to at any given moment. If you don't switch off the handling nanny, the only indication that fun's out there – somewhere – is a sudden and dramatic loss of engine power.

And there you have it: a posemobile that's sexy, fast and dynamically dull. If you're a wealthy buyer who enjoys "stunting" and "flossing", or are prepared to learn what that means, the 645Ci is your ride. If you like driving, your Porsche awaits.

Fancy a game of "spot the triangle"? The RX8 wants to play. I spotted a triangle between the exhausts, in the front spoiler, embedded in the bonnet, under the headrests and on the top of the gear lever. They're there to remind us that Mazda's top-shelf sports car has a rotary engine, which consists of two triangle-shaped rotors, four spark plugs and… that's about it. So what? Most drivers wouldn't care if their car was powered by racing hamsters – just as long as it doesn't break.

As you might expect from a car with a four-year, 50,000-mile, bumper-to-bumper warranty, the RX8 is reliable enough. Any doubts about this singular machine centre on its performance and handling, rather than its quirky propulsion. Sports car buyers want to know one thing: how's it drive? To which the only possible answer is "like a motorcycle".

Nostalgia ain't what it used to be. Once upon a time, brand heritage kept customers loyal. "I'm a Chevy man" actually meant something. These days, Chevrolet sells a Korean compact with about as much Chevy DNA as a Manchurian ring-necked pheasant. Ford's offers a retro-Thunderbird whose driving dynamics, ergonomics and style would have found few takers in 1955. And the new Pontiac GTO is a distant cousin of the old GTO, adopted and twice removed.

The original GTO started life in 1964 as option 382 on a Pontiac Tempest LeMans. Two-hundred and ninety-five dollars bought a bigger engine (389 cubic inches) and air scoops (non-functional). The new GTO is an Australian coupe, slightly modified for the US market, with a 5.7-liter V8. In other words, if you're a heritage freak looking for a connection between the old "goat" and the new, don't bother. Unlike its illustrious predecessor, the new GTO has no kinship with any other Pontiac automobile made, ever.

There's a sticker in the new BMW 5-Series that tells you everything you need to know about the mid-sized motorcar. This permanent post-it, affixed just beneath the infamous iDrive controller, has a tiny arrow pointing left and the words "Climate, Air Dist. and Vent Temp".

Before iDrive, BMW drivers adjusted the vent temperature with a small wheel between the vents. This easy-to-use function was originally created and sold as a safety feature; cold air on a driver's face aids alertness. With the new 5-Series, not only do you have to be computer literate to cool your fevered brow, but you have to take your eyes off the road to do it.

First, you push the iDrive controller down to release BMW from corporate liability. Then you nudge the controller left to select "Climate". A hieroglyphic appears. Twist the knob for the correct function, press it, twist it, look up to avoid oncoming traffic, look down, press the iDrive mouse again and… I think I've made my point. Which is simply this: BMW's new 5-Series is a deeply conflicted automobile. It still aspires to be "the ultimate driving machine", but it no longer knows how.

There are signs of struggle are obvious from first glance. Much has been said about the strange "bustle" protruding from the 5's trunk lid. But focusing on this jarring detail ignores the wider conflict. Designer Chris Bangle has tried to graft sporting intent onto a deeply conservative, highly evolved shape. It doesn't work. His "flame surfacing" (a pretentious phrase for a wild amalgamation of swage lines, creases and indentations) is the art student's equivalent of a tuner's macho side skirts and spoilers.

Sure, the 5-Series now looks aggressive and interesting, but it doesn't look right. There's simply too much going on, too much needless affectation, from the car's curiously feline headlights to its bulbous bum. Bangle's quest for sporting modernity is neither true to the brand nor attractive in and of itself. As strange as it sounds, the new Acura TL, a 5-Series knock off, does it better.

I would love to say that the car's driving dynamics make up for these deficiencies. Unfortunately, the test car came with Dunlop SP Sport 01 DSST tires and BMW's new-style variable-assist power steering. The former are 18" run-flat tires while the latter electronically alters the steering ratio according to your speed. The combination produced such vicious tram lining I thought the tires were worn out. They weren't, but I was, fighting a never-ending battle to keep the car pointed in a straight line.

I realize the gravity of that statement. Accusing a BMW sports sedan of darting around like a skittish horse is like calling a Rolls Royce cheap and cheerful. So I stopped by my local BMW dealer to test drive a 530i with "normal" steering and tires. The bread-and-butter alternative offered suitably meaty steering feel and perfect straight line stability. Great, but since when does BMW sell a sports package that degrades the base model's ride and handling? About the same time they decided to sell a car with a manual gearbox that's both rubbery and notchy. BMW claims the 530i's six-speed has a "precise athletic feel". Sure, and championship wrestling is "superb athletic competition".

Don't get me wrong. Somewhere underneath this farrago is one Hell of an automobile. The 530i Sport corners with minimal body roll and exemplary poise. Its 225hp powerplant is a bit sluggish at low revs, but once it crests 2500rpms the double-VANOS system kicks in and away you go. The silky smooth in-line six has enough grunt to propel the 3461 lbs. mid-size sedan to 60mph in a fraction under seven seconds whilst achieve 30 highway miles per (US) gallon of dead dinosaur (credit the overdrive sixth gear).

I have no doubt that the 530i Sport would offer something akin to a rewarding driving experience if it came equipped with some proper sports tires, an automatic gearbox and standard-issue rack-and-pinion steering. Of course, that would still leave the stupefying iDrive and flame-broiled design. And the fact that the switch that raises and lowers the rear window shade is now on the driver's door, while the central door lock button has moved to the center of the dash. Amongst other things. Anyway, you may have guessed by now that I'm not a great fan of the new 5-Series. Still, I'm willing to re-consider my position once Bimmer's bad boy M-division lowers a 500hp V10 into the 5's engine bay. As any muscle car owner will tell you, massive acceleration can cover a multitude of sins. Even then, I'll still be worrying about this brand.

Unless and until the Boys from Bavaria get back to basics, its future is in jeopardy. Creating understated cars that stay true to the company's driver-focused creed is BMW's ultimate challenge.

When GM dropped off a Cadillac CTS, the car came pre-loaded with a CD by rapper Obie Trice. I somehow doubt the General figured a taste of gangsta lyrics would help me understand Cadillac's brand transformation. Still, point taken. There was a time when a Caddy wouldn't function without a Carpenters' 8-track turning its middle-aged occupants' brains into mush – assuming the driving experience hadn't already done the job.

Even a cursory glance at the CTS confirms that customer mortality has forced Cadillac into a major re-think. It looks nothing like Grandpa's living room-on-wheels, or the front-wheel-drive, badge-engineered compact Caddies of yore. The CTS is all sharp creases, meeting at odd angles, in weird places. Like it or loathe it, the automotive origami looks sharp enough to draw blood. That said, the design suffers from Peter North Syndrome; once you abandon the head-on perspective, there's nothing much to see.

The CTS' minimalist interior represents another radical departure from the Chandelier School of Design. Zebrano tree growers may despair, but the cabin is no longer dominated by acres of wood polished to plasticity. The textured black plastic covering most major surfaces strikes the perfect balance between funereal and fun. All the displays – from the white-on-black speedometer to the gently glowing climate control pictograms – are equally somber, equally funky. Taken as a whole, the CTS' interior displays a restrained, post-modern sensibility – right down to its bespoke typeface.

The Caddy's cabin scores in two other areas where American luxury cars are regularly trounced by their foreign rivals: ergonomics and tactility.

The DVD nav exemplifies the manufacturer's newfound understanding of its consumers' cognitive function (or lack thereof). Clearly labeled buttons surrounding the central screen offer seamless transitions from BOSE blasting to route guidance, to warning messages, to telecoms and back. The Caddy's helm-mounted volume control thumbwheel should be an industry standard. And let's not forget OnStar. Their terminally cheerful, internet-savvy operators provide the ultimate hands-free information service.

And guess what? Caddy plastic is no longer made of ground-up toothbrush handles. Fingers that once recoiled from cheap and nasty snickgear can now delight in smooth touch controls that respond with damped precision. Someone's also had a word with Cadillac's upholsterer. Where children once disappeared into the endless folds of cushy sofas, the CTS' chairs are firm, clearly delineated and superbly tailored. They even smell nice.

In short, provided you ante-up 12Gs for the optional 1SC Equipment Group and DVD Nav, you couldn't ask for a more convivial atmosphere in which to listen to musical tales of snub nosed .44s, crack dealers and women paid for sexual services.

The 1SC package elevates the CTS' bottom line to a little over $42k. At this price point, there's nowhere for the CTS to hide; the financial damage places Caddy's self-proclaimed "sports sedan" smack dab in the middle of BMW 330i territory. No surprise then that the 1SC upgrade includes a performance package – complete with monotube shocks, improved brake linings, Stabilitrak traction control and a 3.6 liter V6 engine with Variable Valve Timing.

The 255hp CTS accelerates to 60mph in 6.7 seconds— just a tenth of a second behind the 330i. In theory. In practice, the five-speed auto box is dim-witted. Give the CTS a serious throttle command and the engine responds with partial kickdown, followed by a lower gear and a sudden, frenzied lunge for the horizon. With 252ft. lbs. of torque available at 2800 rpms, the 3.6-powered CTS delivers maximum thrust at a variety of speeds. Yes, but… a CTS at full chat sounds like The Rental Car from Hell.

The CTS' handling reveals more dull DNA. Fling the Caddy into a bend and you immediately sense that the company couldn't quite bring itself to sacrifice low-speed comfort for high-speed control. Hence the 17" wheels, which earn neither style nor performance points. While the Nurnburgring-fettled "sports tuned" suspension helps tie things down, it can't compensate for numb steering and remote control chassis. All of which makes the CTS a talented GT, rather than Beemer-beating driver's car.

Is that important? Hell yes. Cadillac knows it can't compete against the Japanese. The Occidentals have built an enormous (not to say insurmountable) lead in the mass market for luxury sedans. Their customers want it all: comfort, toys, reliability, service and price. Sensibly enough, Caddy's aiming its products at a smaller, more emotionally-driven audience: the Euro-snobs. These customers are happy to pay a premium for style, prestige and performance. The rear-wheel-drive CTS nails the first, phones in the second and sniffs around the third.

I'm tempted to conclude by saying two out of three ain't bad. Instead, I'm left shaking my head. If only the CTS had a barrel-chested V8, better rubber, a six-speed manual and better handling. Oh wait, that's the new CTS-V. As Obie says, bring it!