The word "cobalt" comes from 'kobolt', variant of the old German word 'kobold', meaning 'goblin.' As the story goes, German silver miners of yore believed that goblins would come and steal their booty, leaving worthless cobalt in its place. Not exactly an auspicious choice of names for a car, then.

Still, one can hardly fault the General for wanting to distance the Cobalt from the Cavalier it replaces. What with everyone from Toyota to Hyundai producing far more interesting econoboxes than the august Cavalier, Chevrolet knew that the Cobalt had to set a new, higher standard for its low end products. It had to 'bring the noise' to capture sales from parties other than Alamo and Enterprise.

Enter the noise, or, as the ads say, Chevy's 'new commotion.' From the outside, the Cobalt's design is as novel as a snowflake in Aspen. It isn't unattractive, mind, but it lacks any hint of the brash American flair that Chrysler is currently deploying in their successful campaign against the imports. At least the Cobalt Coupe's a tastier morsel than the Saturn Ion, with which it shares its mechanical underpinnings. The Chevy's aggressively raked roofline (almost 7/8ths Mustang in execution) and characterful dual-element tail lamps add a bit of interest to an otherwise uninspiring shape.

The Cobalt's interior reflects the General's ongoing campaign against acrid cheapness; the Cobalt's plastics rank several orders above the outgoing Cavaliers' (and the Ion). Still, the cabin's overall quality won't worry VW's Golfers or Toyota's Sciontologists. As always, the devil's in the details. For example, the Cobalt's seat bottoms ratchet up and down, but the action is uncultivated, and the seat coverings themselves are more Stainmaster than stylemeister. The Cobalt's urethane steering wheel rim is suitably thick, but feels like a discount replacement part, and fails to telescope.

On the plus side, the Cobalt is a seriously quiet automobile. Noise from the drivetrain, tires, wind and traffic are all suppressed far more effectively than they are in a comparable Honda Civic or Toyota Corolla. Better still, despite the frigid temperatures and epic potholes on our test loop, the Cobalt's interior trim uttered nary a squeak or groan. Reliability freaks have every reason to be hopeful.

Over the road con brio, the Cobalt proved largely free of unwanted 'commotion'. In situations where a Cavalier would've staggered about like the oenophiles in Sideways, the Cobalt remained firmly planted to the pavement. Enthusiasts could be forgiven for wanting to pass on anything employing a twist-beam trailing arm rear suspension, but the reality is something of a pleasant surprise. (Transitional responses are sharpened by standard anti-roll bars front and rear.) Admittedly, the Cobalt doesn't inspire the same handling confidence as the Ford Focus, but it doesn't slur about like the skinny-tired Mitsubishi Lancer, either.

The Cobalt's variable-assist electric power steering lacks true precision, especially at the straight-ahead, but it's not unbearably artificial or over-boosted. The Chevy's brakes are more effective than any disc/drum setup has a right to be (you'll have to plump for the SS if you want discs all 'round), providing tremendous stopping power with minimal fuss or fade. A little more braking feel would be welcome, but the stoppers' safety is beyond reproach.

Despite a large-for-the-class 2.2L Ecotec four-cylinder with 145 horses, the Cobalt is a decidedly reluctant revver, with general smoothness being notable by its absence. Although we can only hope that Chevrolet will find some people who will, thrashing an entry-level Cobalt is both unpleasant and pointless. Doubtlessly, the shortly-promised 2.4L 175hp will improve matters, as will the 205 ponies in the force-fed 2.0L SS variant. But for now, file the Cobalt's go-power under: 'Competent, not inspiring.'

And there you have it. The Cobalt, for all its improvements in quality and engineering, is yet another boring automobile. The 'new commotion' ultimately lacks what Chevy's admen so desperately want us to believe it has– something to get excited about. Sure, GM has come up with a perfectly competent car capable of going ply-to-ply with Honda and Toyota's current (albeit dated) offerings. But the Cobalt stumbles badly next to the dynamic soul of the Mazda3, and the abrasive charisma of the Dodge Neon SRT-4.

Given GM's sliding market share, the Cobalt's lack of ambition is particularly troubling. Name change or no, the Cobalt started from the back of the pack, inheriting the Cavalier's reputation for low residuals, suspect quality, and a 'rent me/beat me' persona. Whether through novel styling, breakthrough technology, scandalously low MSRP or stupid amounts of power, the Cobalt needed something to help it stand out from its ancestor AND a field crowded with viable alternatives. To stem the tide of imported low-cost, high quality sedans, the Cobalt had to be a game-changer. What GM delivered is a solid setup man. Back to the mines boys, back to the mines.

Honda must know that "street cred" and "minivan" go together like "50 Cent" and "country club". The preliminary sketches for the updated Odyssey show a vehicle bristling with sporting intent. Unfortunately, the finished item is another boxy behemoth with no more sex appeal than a shopping cart. This time out, Honda indented the Odyssey's lower doors and creased the nose. The cinched waist fails to moderate the slab sides while the rhinoplasty makes the Odyssey look like a snake with a half-eaten Acura TL sticking out of its mouth.

In 1986, pop rockers Huey Lewis and the News grabbed America by its blue collar and unironically proclaimed that it was "Hip to Be Square"– a rather peculiar assertion given that rock and roll music has historically stoked the fires of nonconformity. Almost in spite of itself, this ode to the joys of orthodoxy became a smash hit. And though it's taken the better part of twenty years to come to the fore, automotive design now finds itself deeply enthralled with Mr. Lewis' orthogonal ideology.

From the Subaru Forester to Hummer's entire catalog (sides H1 – H3), car designers are breaking out their t-squares with messianic zeal. General Motors has (re)built their entire Cadillac luxury division around a surface language of aggressive angles. At the shallow end of the automotive gene pool, Scion's refrigerator-shaped xBox, Honda's Element and Nissan's [pending] Cube all show that today's cutting edge designers are thinking inside the box. At the deep end, Rolls Royce's startling Phantom shows the plebs how it's done.

Volvo stylists must be falling on their collective styling knives. Just as Gothenburg's gurus finally figured out how to take their cars out of the boxes they came in, the market has gone behind their backs and snuck them back in. What's more, the retreat back to Square One has not been confined to entire vehicle designs. Witness BMW's effort to incorporate higher and squarer trunk lids into its Seven and Five Series sedans. Ford's once-cheeky Focus has ditched its pubescent New Edge surfacing inside-and-out for the anonymous angularity of the po-faced Five Hundred. The dashboard of Ford's budget banger, once an intriguing jumble of arcs and intersecting lines, now presents a lamentable cliff of plastic.

In fact, industry scuttlebutt has Ford's still-warm Five Hundred undergoing an emergency rectilinear facelift, incorporating a three-bar grille (doubtlessly inspired by design chief J Mays' Norelco). First seen in 2003's blocky 427 Concept, the revision can be seen as a response to the success of DCX's gritty-yet-glam, bluff-faced 300. The big Chrysler's design has been celebrated, while the Ford's detractors have cried out for less J Mays and more Jay-Z.

This unmistakable cubist trend constitutes a wholesale rejection of The Cult of the Wind Tunnel (a.k.a. the science of aerodynamics). In the mid-80's, aerodynamically-enthralled designers created an entire Melted-Bar-of-Soap School of Coachwork. Consider the Ford Taurus, Chevrolet Corsica, Honda Accord and Toyota Camry. Now try to identify the major differences between their major surfaces. There aren't any. In fact, the automakers' lockstep allegiance to the God of Aerodynamics created forecourt after forecourt of look-alike vehicles. Hence the square hipness backlash.

The return to rectilinear styling is also a predictable outgrowth of the seemingly unstoppable popularity of SUV's and pickup trucks. The hidden message incorporated in virtually every SUV and pickup's design is "square = safe." Their emotional appeal is equally compelling; such square-jawed behemoths weld the adjectives "boxy" and "masculine" together in the consumer's consciousness. These equations have made quadrangular styling inherently desirable, leading to its surprise second life in the marketplace. Trucks that dallied even slightly with the previously fashionable suppository look have quickly ditched their curves for manly right angles. Nissan's entire lineup has been given the ninety-degree once over, from Frontier to Armada. Ford's latest F-150 has pushed out the corners of its softer forbearer.

Sadly, beyond increased interior volumes, the popularity of Pablo Picasso/Georges Braque-style forms has little recommend it. Not only do aerodynamics suffer (taking MPG and NVH along for the ride), but the often tall shapes that result conspire to produce a higher center of gravity, bane of enthusiasts everywhere. What's more, unless one has a gourd like a bobblehead doll or a bizarre penchant for transporting plasma screen televisions, most of the excess headroom amounts to little more than wasted space.

There's a stylistic pitfall here, too: the danger of confusing butch with beautiful, gravitas with grace. Both the aforementioned 7-Series Bimmer and Rolls Royce Phantom have fallen into this trap, the latter more egregiously. While the High Roller undoubtedly has presence, it's aura born as a function of scale, not stylistic verve. Interestingly, Jaguar learned this lesson ages ago. Remember the late-80's XJ? Exactly.

It's hard to predict how long this square design movement will flourish. While the buying public's detachment from standardized design is both well-placed and understandable, don't expect a lot of volume offerings to go boxing. An xB here or there still manages to make something of a statement, but too much of a good thing is too much, period. The success of organically-shaped whips like Infiniti's voluptuous G35 Coupe and FX softroaders indicate that boxy isn't necessarily the new black.

In any case, today's niche-laden automotive landscape won't tolerate homogeneity in any form for too long. In other words, Huey Lewis was wrong. Thank God.

By all accounts, the Ford GT is a fantastic car. This website has joined the chorus of car magazines and enthusiasts singing the praises of the 500hp, mid-engined monster. Despite the Ford badge, reviews place the 'working man's supercar' in the same league as the Lamborghini Gallardo, Ferrari F430 and Porsche Turbo. It's a complete success.

Well, not quite. As a business and marketing proposition, The Ford GT has more in common with the ill-fated Studebaker Avanti than latter day Italian and German exotica. Although the GT and the Avanti bear few mechanical or visual similarities, their marketing mission– to draw people into showrooms and entice them into buying the more plebian products of the parent corporation– is identical. And that's not the half of it. The resemblance between the two supercars runs far deeper…

In 1961, Studebaker's product line had grown old and tired. Larks, Cruisers and Hawks were clogging dealerships. The company's century-old reputation for build quality, mechanical excellence and attractive design was quickly fading into the mists of time. Sales were declining rapidly, as buyers switched their allegiance to Ford Falcons, Plymouth Valiants and Chevrolet Corvairs. To spruce up Studebaker's increasingly geriatric image, the company decided to build a radical range-topper to cast a warm glow over the rest of their automotive products.

Studebaker's designers completed the Avanti in just eight months. To give their halo car a sporting image, Studebaker adapted many performance parts from their existing model line: supercharger, disc brakes, a roll bar and more. To keep development and tooling costs low, the automaker built the Avanti with a fiberglass body. Unfortunately, the company had no experience with the material. Unforeseen production problems created major cost overruns and seemingly endless delays.

In 1963, the Avanti arrived late, but loved. The buff books raved. As the hype gradually faded, well-heeled owners became less enamored. The $4500 Avanti's fiberglass body and mechanicals were not nearly as reliable or robust as the company's more prosaic products. The company was forced to issue a steady stream of dealer fixes, most notably changes to the body's construction to keep the large rear window from popping out of the car at speed. The Avanti's dealer visits did Studebaker's reputation no favors amongst an extremely influential market segment.

More importantly, as a marketing tool for less affluent buyers, the Avanti was a bust. People lined up at Studebaker dealers to see the car, but the company's sales and market share continued their precipitous decline. In the final analysis, sales fell more sharply in 1962 and 63, after the introduction of the Avanti, then they had in the previous few years.

Now, compare this sad history with Ford's new halo car, the GT. The parallels are frightening.

In 2002, Ford's product line had grown old and tired. The Taurus, Focus and Crown Victoria were clogging dealerships. The company's century-old reputation for build quality, mechanical excellence and attractive design was quickly fading into the mists of time. Sales were declining rapidly as buyers switched their allegiance to Honda Accords, Toyota Corollas and Nissan Altimas. To spruce up Ford's increasingly geriatric image, the company decided to build a radical new range-topper to cast a warm glow over the rest of their automotive products.

Ford's designers completed the GT in a remarkable 18 months. To give their halo car a sporting image, Ford raided the corporate parts bin for its high performance parts. Most notably, the GT's 5.4-liter DOHC powerplant is a supercharged version of an existing Ford V8. To keep development and tooling costs low, Ford built the GT with aluminum and carbon fiber. Unfortunately, the company had no experience with these materials. Unforeseen production problems created major cost overruns, and seemingly endless delays.

In 2004, the Ford GT arrived late, but loved. The buff books raved. As the hype gradually fades, owners may soon be less enamored. The $139,990 GT's aluminum body and mechanicals are not nearly as reliable or robust as the company's more prosaic products. For example, on December 22nd, the company recalled the GT to fix faulty suspension components on the 205mph supercar. Could this signal the start of a steady stream of recalls and dealers fixes? If so, the GT's dealer visits will do Ford's reputation no favors amongst an extremely influential market segment.

More importantly, as a marketing tool for less affluent buyers, the GT could well be a bust. People have lined-up at auto shows and dealerships to ogle the car, but there's no sign that Ford is reversing the 45% loss of passenger car market share that they've experienced during the last five years.

In fact, if the GT fails to ignite sales, it will have to be counted a failure, just as the Avanti was a failure for Studebaker 40 years ago.

The Scion tC and I got off to a bad start; I had the audacity to take it grocery shopping. Hey, it's a hatchback, right? Well, most hatchbacks have cargo covers with a hinge at front and stringy-things that tie it to the hatch lid. Open the hatch and the cover swings out of your way. Not the tC. The tC's cargo cover is a cardboard, plastic and faux-dog-hair affair that has three positions: 1) In the way; 2) totally in the way; and 3) tossed angrily into the back seat.

To access the tC's hatch you must lift up the cover yourself, at which time the plastic clip detaches itself and shouts to the others, "Hey guys, you gotta try this!" The other clips jump in unison and the whole affair crashes down into the trunk faster than you can utter your expletive of choice. Good luck re-attaching it. After five attempts and two dozen expletives, I placed the cover in the aforementioned Position 3. By the time I loaded my groceries, the milk was past its sell-by date.

The Toyota Prius, Honda Accord hybrid and Ford Escape hybrid are a major hit. The buff books rave about them, the Greens bless them and retail customers can't get enough (literally). While the mileage, environmental and PC advantages of vehicles powered by a gas – electric powerplant seems obvious, how much of this hybrid mania is hype?

Buyers pay a large premium for a hybrid Escape or a Prius, presuming that the increased fuel mileage makes them a better environmental citizen. While there's no question that the Toyota, Honda and Ford hybrids are more fuel efficient than their conventionally powered equivalents, the difference is nowhere near as great as the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) numbers suggest.

Because of the low speeds involved, the city portion of the EPA's test is accomplished in battery-only mode. As the gasoline engine is off-line for a significant part of the test, the eventual mileage figure is grossly inflated. The test fails to consider the fuel needed to recharge the batteries later on. What's more, all energy-draining, electrically-powered accessories (including AC) are switched off during both the urban and highway tests. These variables contribute to the huge discrepancy between the EPA's official numbers and hybrid owners' real world experience.

Few people realize that a hybrid's power train adds roughly 10% to the weight of a car. Even fewer realize that manufacturers try to offset the weight penalty– and add to the hybrid's headline-grabbing mileage figures– by the extensive use of non-hybrid gas-saving technology. Engine shut-off at idle, electric power steering, harder and reduced rolling resistance tires (at the expense of comfort and traction), reduced option content, reduced engine performance, and, in the case of the Ford, a continuously variable transmission (CVT) all help raise the cars' overall efficiency.

Of course, if gas mileage is the ultimate goal, all of these strategies could be applied to a "standard" car. A non-hybrid model with the equivalent modifications would significantly narrow the mileage gap with its hybrid sibling. In fact, in normal use, the margin between truly comparable hybrid and non-hybrid cars could be less than 10%– hardly enough to justify the extra purchase price. And, lest we forget, the hybrid's gas-saving advantage is not without its own particular environmental costs…

Gas – electric hybrid engines use several large batteries. Creating these power cells requires a couple of hundred pounds of heavy metals– not to mention the copper used in the large electric drive motors and the heavy wires they require. Mining and smelting lead, copper and other heavy metals is an energy intensive process that generates both air pollution and deforestation. Disposing of the batteries when they outlive their usefulness also raises environmental challenges.

And then there are the safety problems related to the gas – electric hybrid engine's high voltages and amperages. While Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards (FMVSS) regulate a passenger vehicle's basic crash protection, there are no federally mandated procedures remain for the protection of rescue workers at the site of an accident involving a hybrid-powered vehicle. Service technicians and do-it-yourself owners also lack the guidelines, education and training necessary to safely repair hybrid engines.

So, if the hybrid's mileage advantage is minimal, and the technology has its own set of negative environmental side effects, why is hybrid technology so popular, both in the marketplace and in the glossy pages of the car mags?

Americans are fond of turning to simple silver bullets to solve complicated problems. The hybrid solution seems ideal. Want to be environmentally responsible? Buy a hybrid. A hybrid car offers instant gratification, PC-style. It relieves consumers of both guilt and personal responsibility for the broader impact of their daily energy consumption habits. Heaven forbid that a hybrid owner should switch off their central air, or buy less disposable products, or use their car less, to help protect the environment.

Hybrid technology embodies America's 'solution of the day' syndrome. A quarter of a century ago, the diesel-powered car was going to free us from dependence on imported oil. A while later, the turbocharger was set to improve the efficiency of the internal combustion engine and liberate us from foreign oil addiction. About a decade ago, the California Air Resources Board thought that battery-powered electric cars were the answer, cleaning the air as they saved the world's petrochemical resources.

The problem with the 'solution of the day' is that few of these "easy" solutions actually work. Automotive history is littered with failed miracles, from the kerosene-driven Stanley Steamer to the rotary-powered Skycar. Time has proven that the only innovations that persevere in the marketplace are the ones that deliver real benefits. No amount of hype can obscure, for long, the lack of results. When boosters call hybrid technology an "interim" solution to our energy needs, they're more right than they even know.

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.

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?

Is Scion a brand or corporate sleight-of-hand? The sales campaigns for the xA and xB display an ongoing and achingly self-conscious attempt to endow the Toyota subsidiary's products with its own distinct, youth-oriented identity. The company's demographics show that the marketing boys have, at the least, established a beachhead amongst their target market. In California, the xA and xB have demonstrated their appeal to young customers who fear that Mom's Camry is just too… well… Chevrolet.

On the other hand, Scion's products smack of parts bin engineering. Apart from their unconventional shapes and higher quality, the xA and xB are thoroughly banal commuter tins. In fact, consumers have seen their ilk before; a goodly portion of the pairings' greasy bits being cribbed directly from the prosaic Echo (a rare vehicular misfire for The House of Toyota). Scion's initial offerings may be cheerful, but they're also cheap.

Scion's latest salvo, the tC, aims markedly higher. With 160hp on tap (and an optional supercharger for the gluttonous), the tC distinguishes itself from its siblings by promising actual forward motion. The $16,500 coupe also provides refinement levels well above its class average. In the process, however, the tC steps ALL OVER Toyota's own aging Celica, a car selling for thousands more, despite offering substantially less refinement and bang-for-the-buck.

The problem is far more profound than simple fratricide. In the shallow end of the motoring pool, the axiom remains: small cars = small profits. Most small cars never realize black ink. Those that do don't until well into a model's lifecycle, after the cost of development and tooling have been amortized. By that point, whatever sliver of profit has been realized must be returned into R&D for the next generation. It's a vicious cycle with a low return rate.

The concept of fiscal viability inevitably comes to rest on the argument that small cars benefit a company's long-term prosperity. The crux of this theory– long employed to slake company bean counters– is that starter vehicles are the "gateway drug" to brand loyalty. The hypothesis lacks credible statistical proof, and defies common sense. Do corporate strategists seriously expect a Chevy Cobalt driver to drive a Cadillac in ten or twenty year's time?

Let's face it: the notion of cradle-to-grave brand loyalty is dead, a victim of an America increasingly addicted to the concept of ever-changing "choice." In this increasingly video-bite driven, high-definition society, with its endless stream of new products, a freshly-minted Scion owner is seriously unlikely to become the Lexus LS buyer of the future, no matter how high those J.D. Power rankings climb.

Lest we forget, despite their successes, this is the same Toyota that made several unsuccessful overtures into the full-size pickup arena (a state of affairs they have yet to rectify), along with a slew of oddball minivans (before they cracked the code). Obviously, for every lukewarm MR2 Spyder, Toyota has produced several homeruns (Camry, Highlander etc.) to take up the slack. Taken as an aggregate, they're on quite a roll. But they're certainly not infallible.

It's also instructive to note how other companies' 'mold-breaking' youth-targeted entries have fared. The irony is that most vehicles earmarked for modish young trendsetters usually find their audience among an altogether older demographic. How many fifty-year-olds do you see wheeling about in Chrysler PT Cruisers? Honda Elements? Quite a few. Perhaps they've been taken in by their 401k-sympathetic pricing, or maybe it's simply that older consumers can look past the cars' faddish designs and spot an inner utilitarian goodness… the ability to swallow mass quantities of potting soil while sipping gas, say.

Either way, once the Baby Boomers or Golden Oldies migrate to a car in sufficient numbers, even the most naive marketers know they can kiss a model's youth appeal hasta la bye-bye. What's more, older consumers are INFINITELY less likely to plump for options like the $299 illuminated cupholders (yes, really) that help Scion's quest for profitability. Worried yet? It's worth noting that Scion's youth-happy xB is already charting 51% of its owners at/above age 35. That percentage may well increase, as the xB's notoriety swings eastward from California into less style-conscious quarters.

There are other potential trouble spots for Scion-tists. Mitsubishi already learned the hard way that building a business on a young, fiscally irresponsible customer base is short term gain for long term pain. And again, there's that little matter of whether Toyota can grow the Scion sub-brand cost-effectively without cannibalizing sales from their own bigger-ticket offerings.

So, will Scion be successful? That depends on one's definition of the term. Scion's new products will realize new sales for Toyota, but it remains altogether suspect that these transactions will come from the demographic bogey Toyota is so desperate to court… and wasn't that the whole point of the exercise, anyway?

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.

When Porsche decided they needed a cash cow in the shape of an SUV, they built a brand new truck and stuck a 911 face on it. The Cayenne isn't exactly what you'd call pretty, but there's genuine Porsche engineering underneath. When the fast-growing Saab brand decided to enter the American SUV fray, parent company GM took a different approach. They stuck a Swedish nose on a Trailblazer/Envoy, made some suspension mods, angled the instruments towards the driver, put the ignition between the seats and called it good.

To be fair, Saab swears on its smorgasbord that the 9-7X has brand-specific driving dynamics. Hmmm. Good as it is, a Porsche Cayenne still drives like a truck, not a 911 or Boxster. By the same token, a lowered and stiffened Envoy isn't likely to handle like a front-wheel-drive turbocharged Saab sedan. Besides, no matter how many Swedish engineers were involved, no matter how Scandinavian the driving experience, can you really call the gas-loving 9-7X a genuine Saab when it won't even be sold in Sweden? What the Hell happened to national automotive identity?

Relax. I'm not about to put on a George W. Bush mask, trash a McDonald's and rant against the forces of globalism. As far as I'm concerned, the more people who eat Big Macs the better (even if I don't). But you've got to wonder how the car industry thinks it can get away with transnational badge engineering in today's hugely competitive, niche-driven marketplace.

To wit: the Subaru Impreza Turbo may seem identical to the Mitsubishi Evo, but customers who buy such things make fine distinctions, and choose their loyalties carefully. If you build something Saab-like on top of the Scooby's platform, very few people who are attracted to the four-wheel-drive, rally-inspired niche will be fooled. Interested, sure, but not fooled. The Saab 9-2X will end up competing with itself, albeit in a different form.

The temptation to perform this branding slight of hand is immense. Corporate bean counters see disparate parts of their automotive empire trying to do the same thing at the same time. They figure the Mother company could achieve massive economies of scale by getting all the brands to use the same damn bits. And they're right. Toyota has just about conquered the world by building different models from common parts (e.g. the Toyota Camry sedan and the RX300 SUV). So what's wrong with GM saving tens of millions of dollars in engineering and avoiding additional production capacity by designing and building Saabs in Japan and Ohio?

Character. It's that series of tactile and visual clues that tell you you're in something designed and built by people of a particular nationality. It's the oil-dampened precision of an Audi glove box as it snicks home. It's the perfectly-positioned armrest of a BMW 7-Series. It's the way a man over 35 years of age can't get comfortable in a Lotus in less than thirty seconds. It's the irregular rocking sensation of a Corvette at idle. When it comes to cars, national character is a bit like the US Supreme Court's definition of pornography: you know it when you see it.

Or hear it. I once watched a British TV program where two blindfolded German car nerds successfully identified 10 different cars just from the sound of the front door closing. While most people have something called a "life", I'm sure that many average car buyers could perform a similar trick. You only have to pull the door handle of a Jaguar X-Type to know it's been Americanized. You only have to pull the door handle of a new XJ to know it hasn't.

Aha! Both Jags were designed and built in Britain! So where's your national character now? The X-Type was built on a Ford platform, the XJ wasn't. The X-Type was a new model, post-Ford, built specifically for the American market. The XJ was an evolution of a long-standing British design, built specifically for the greater glory of Jaguar. In fact, the X-Type proves what can happen when a corporate parent ignores or disrespects the national characteristics of a foreign subsidiary's business.

Obviously, not all multinational efforts are doomed to failure. Porsche builds superb Boxsters in Finland. VW builds killer R32's in Bratislava. And when Italy ran out of capacity, Lamborghini built a number of suitably Italian Gallardo's in Ingolstadt. But the key difference is that these machines were designed in their home countries, by people who understand their brand's heritage. Equally important, they were created for their home market, where a brand's heritage is always most jealously guarded.

There's no sugar-coating it: a Saab built in Ohio for Americans may be a damn fine truck, but it will squander the loyalty of the people who know the difference between a Saab, and a Saab story.

Front wheel drive sucks. Case in point: the Acura TL. Here's a perfectly good car ruined by the simple fact that its front wheels have to steer and propel at the same time. Give the TL's gas pedal a shove, feed the engine some revs, unleash a bit of torque and, well, it's all a bit too much for the front tires. Traction takes a powder, taking with it any chance of giving the TL a proper thrashing. In fact, you can't even give the TL a mild slap on the wrist without a dramatic loss of steering control.

What a shame. While Toyota's Lexus has firmly established itself as a distinct and worthy competitor to Germany's finest, Acura is still trying to convince the world that an Acura is more than a Honda with a slightly bigger engine, leather, wood and a few toys. Which, in this case, it is. Anyway, given Honda's impeccable engineering and build quality, there's nothing particularly wrong with this "Acura as a posh Honda" product perception. But there's nothing particularly right with it either—especially when cachet (a.k.a. "snob value") sells cars in this segment.

The TL's exterior highlights Honda's struggle to raise Acura's game. Its designers have done everything possible to separate the Acura TL from its donor DNA: narrowed headlights, split front spoiler, indented swage line, raised side skirts, five-spoke alloys, rear lip spoiler, dual exhausts and sharper rear lights. The end result is… a Honda Accord with a bit of Alfa Romeo 156 thrown in. It's not a displeasing design, but it isn't terribly classy or, um, bling.

The TL's interior, by contrast, is both. High end materials have Cinderella-ed the Accord's cabin into a comfort zone as sharp as a Chanel suit— worn by Missy Elliott. Check out those hooded, backlit blue dials and glowing key slot. Safe! And if that's not massive enough, pop in a DVD-A and crank up the 5.1 Surround Sound. Yes, the new format means you have to buy all your favorite music again. But the TL's eight-channel audio attack easily justifies the re-re-re-investment. Until BOSE unleashes its own DVD-A system (with better bass response), Acura's boom box is about as good as it gets. If not better.

I wish I could say the same about the TL's driving dynamics. The trouble began the moment I slotted the test car's five-speed auto box into Drive. Er, Neutral. Wow! Who would have thought that Honda – sorry, Acura – could come up with a shift gate that rivals BMW's iDrive for counter-intuitive complexity? Once I figured out why I was going nowhere fast, I was free to explore the TL's heart and soul: its engine.

Honda makes some of the world's best engines: smooth, powerful, tractable, free-revving, frugal and clean. The TL's V6 powerplant is typical of the breed. Although the 3.2-liter engine stumps up only 30 more horses than the Accord's [optional] six, it's noticeably punchier throughout the rev range. The TL's two hundred and seventy horses (fed on Variable Valve Timing) fling the car from zero to sixty in a fraction under seven seconds– provided you can find a way to coax and baby the go pedal at the same time. Otherwise, you're right back where we started: Wheel Spin City.

To its credit, Acura's boffins have attempted to mitigate the problem with Vehicle Stability Assist and an electronic traction control system. No dice. In a straight line, the TL's nose squirm is annoying. Around corners, it's positively alarming. The defining handling characteristic of this pretender to the mid-sized sports sedan throne is neither understeer nor oversteer; it's no steer. Press-on drivers will need both sensitive hands and nerves of steel.

Bummer. Everything else about the TL's set-up is superb. The double wishbone front and rear suspension allows just the right amount of road feel, without a hint of discomfort. Four-way disc brakes combine consummate linear control with serious stopping power. (The six-speed manual adds Brembo brake calipers up front.) Overall body control is exemplary. Granted, the TL is not a focused sports sedan in the 3-Series sense of the term. But if Acura had bitten the bullet and built a rear-wheel-drive TL, I reckon it could have given Munich's medium-sized meisterwerk a decent run for the money.

Ah yes, money. For value-driven buyers, the fully equipped Acura TL is a steal. It offers quality, reliability and every conceivable luxury for thousands less than anything else in its class, and much above. For the rest of us, the TL is maddeningly close to greatness. Luckily, it's only a matter of time before Honda/Acura follows Detroit's lead and converts its premium products to rear wheel drive. When that glorious day arrives, Acura will prove once and for all that it's ready to play with the big boys.

The Toyota Prius is a technological tour-de-force. At low speeds, its 28hp nickel metal hydride battery provides propulsion. Put the hammer down, and a 1.5 litre, 76hp internal combustion engine takes over. The transition between the two systems is relatively seamless. You don't even need an extension cord; the gas engine and energy from the braking system recharge the battery. What's more, the new look gas-electric Prius hybrid exceeds California's Super Ultra Low Vehicle (SULEV) exhaust standards. Driven sensibly it gets around 45mpg (US Gallons).

Terrific! If you're a money-conscious motorist who believes SUVs and their ilk pollute the planet and pervert the course of American foreign policy, the $20K Prius is a godsend. But if you're a petrolhead who regularly sacrifices social responsibility on the altar of adrenal release, Toyota's clean, green mileage machine is a far less attractive proposition. For one thing, the design is spectacularly dull. Quite how Toyota managed to blend so many ill-conceived details (slab-sides, gruesome headlights, hideous rear hatch, etc.) into such a narcoleptic shape is a mystery almost as impenetrable Chris Bangle's justification for his "flame-surfaced" BMWs. In fact, the Prius is so unintentionally stealthy it gives drivers automotive Alzheimer's; I "lost" the car in a supermarket parking lot whilst standing directly in front of it.

I've got nothing against hairdressers. Anyone who can ask "Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?" twenty times a day and pretend to care is endowed with more social skills than I'll ever possess. I use the word "endowed" advisedly; some people assume that male hairdressers are homosexual. Ridiculous. You can no more claim that the majority of male hairdressers are gay than you can say there is such a thing as a "hairdresser's car." Actually, you can, and there is. On the car side, the Rover MGF, BMW Z3, Mazda MX-5, Mercedes SLK, Suzuki Cappuccino, Toyota MR2, Ford StreetKa and the Peugeot 206CC are all perfect examples.

To qualify as a Hairdresser's Car (HDC), a vehicle must satisfy strict criteria. First, it's got to be a convertible. It's no good spending hours on your trademark tresses to hide them under a hardtop. The number of days you can drive top down without baking, freezing or soaking may barely top double digits, but the scissor-wielding set are happy to suffer for their art.

Second, it's got to be small. The hairdresser's high street habitat mandates a machine that can fit in a parking space no larger than a Queen size bed. If you can imagine a giant putting his hand over the car and going "Vroom, vroom!" it qualifies.

Third, an HDC must look like "the rough one" from a boy band: butch, in a feminine kind of way. The only red line drivers of these asthmatic automobiles explore comes in a lipstick tube. But they love the whole boy racer thing. (As my hairdresser pointed out, the difference between macho posturing– bonnet bulges, rear wings, sports seats– and camp theatrics is smaller than Max Power readers might like to admit.)

Fourth, an HDC must be relatively cheap. Like most glamorous jobs, hairdressing pays peanuts. While a BMW Z8 satisfies all the basic HDC criteria, its stratospheric price tag makes it about as realistic a proposition for hairdressers as a career in professional wrestling.

Lastly, an HDC must be crap. A typical HDC has a weak-willed engine and a chassis that's less entertaining as Newsnight. The Z3, for example, is the worst car BMW has made since it started producing machines with more than three wheels. It throws a hissy fit the minute you throw it into a corner– which is nigh on impossible given the horseless stable under the base model's bonnet.

Sure, the basic MGF and SLK are safe and predictable handlers. They're also about as fun to pilot as a riverboat. While the MX5 has a fantastic chassis, its engine lacks grunt. As for the mini-drop-top from Peugeot, let's just say that on a rating of one to five stars, the 206CC doesn't even reach low Earth orbit. If your hairdresser's unsteady hand spills latte first thing in the morning, it's not a hangover. It's scuttle shake.

Yes, it's easy to laugh at these incompetent HDC's. And yet…

Something strange has happened: manufacturers have turned their HDC's into real sports cars. Once the Elise proved that small can be credible, carmakers told their boffins to break out the steroids. The AMG SLK screams (well, whines loudly) from zero to sixty in, gulp, 4.9 seconds. Beemer's M Roadster does the dash in 5.1 seconds— although it still storms off in a huff if you corner too quickly. How long before Suzuki turn the Cappuccino into a Double Espresso? How long before your hairdresser eyes your Honda Accord Type R and says, "Oh that thing? My new Beetle's got a 3.2 litre 225 bhp V6 and a flower vase."

A perfectly good (bad?) genre of automobiles is disappearing faster than Jennifer Aniston's fringe. What's more, enthusiasts are being lured into deeply unmanly machines and… enjoying it! I spent a week with a Boxster, a car continually criticised for being a sheep in a Marks and Spencer's three-piece suit. Now that Porsche's mid-engined baby has a bit more power to play with, slinging the former HDC through the twisties is more fun than dressing up as Jessie from Toy Story. Did I just say that? I meant to say it's more fun than blasting a Carrera 4 through a chicane at Brand's Hatch.

In fact, it's time the legions of hopelessly heterosexual pistonheads acknowledged their debt to the HDC. The re-birth of the roadster genre, the realisation that small, driver-focused cars can sell in significant numbers, is down to the fact that Toni and Guy's guys care more about posing than, well, anything.

So if you feel a sudden urge to buy one of these up rated toy cars, don't be afraid to get in touch with your feminine side. You'll own a superb sports car, and have something interesting to talk about when you get your hair cut.