Nissan Rogue Review

2008 Nissan Rogue



By Michael Martineck

It probably seemed like a good idea at the time: introduce American car buyers to Nissan’s new cute ‘ute in an episode of NBC’s hit show Heroes. And so we see the Rogue in the hands of a world saving high school cheerleader– ensuring its chick-car status for all eternity. And then rogue crooks swipe the CUV and drive it to Mexico. Demonstrating what? The car is easy to boost? Why didn’t technopath Micah Sanders get a booster seat, take the wheel and show Ford the true meaning of “sync my ride?” All of which leaves me wondering: is the Rogue good enough to survive its own marketing?

From the looks of it, yes. Although the upward kinked rear window is a Murano cue without which I could do, the Rogue’s swoopy lines are generally as fresh as a pair of Puma sneakers. The height vs. width solution makes the vehicle look decidedly skinny from certain angles, but that may be part of the appeal (you can’t be too tall or too thin). And cheers to the designers for realizing nobody wants to see your spare tire.

The Rogue’s design loses coherence at the front. If the crossover’s grill actually made French fries at least they’d be an excuse. As it is, the monochromatic prow lacks a dramatic focal point or expression. To bad the varsity team from Infiniti didn’t do more coaching; their similarly proportioned EX has a far more appealing Cheshire cat grin.

The Rogue’s righteous cabin screams “give me a Z!” And so it does, cowled instruments, air vents and all. The Rogue’s minimalist collection of round, friendly gauges and sensibly designed and positioned controls create a handsome, business-like space that seems built for the long haul. The same can’t be said for the seats, whose comfort lacks highway compatibility. The base radio sports an Aux jack for iPoditude and delivers sound. (You’ll need to upgrade to BOSE for a flattering adjective.)

Nissan’s svelte utility vehicle has one engine option: a 2.5-liter four-cylinder engine. The powerplant’s 170 horses and 175 lb-ft of torque fit the demographic remit: not being slow and not sucking gas. Bonus! Floor it and the Rogue will charge-up on-ramps with growly, thrashy abandon. Around the corners, at speed, the Rogue should not go; the tires and chassis will tell you so. If you don’t listen, four-wheel anti-lock braking, Electronic Brake force Distribution, Vehicle Dynamic Control and Traction Control will remind you.

Nissan’s continuously variable transmission (CVT) is perfect for urban work, but a genuine pain on the highway, where the slightest throttle input sends the revs soaring or falling. The Rogue's CVT’s not as good as the best systems (usually married to larger engines) and not as bad as the worst. Opting for paddle shifters is like putting Peyton Manning in a pleated skirt and sweater; it’s not the right gear for the game.

By the same token, if you think Nissan’s [optional] Intuitive All-wheel Drive is designed for hard core off-roading, you’re wrong. But there are advantages…

The Rogue’s system uses all four wheels to get going, cruises in front wheel-drive, and engages the rear wheels in corners or slips. So you get torque steer-free starts, front-wheel drive economy, rear wheel drive handling in the corners, and all wheel-drive security. As the Rogue is neither sports car nor genuine mud plugger, it all adds up to extra prowess on wet and snowy roads.

That said, driving dynamics help set the Rogue apart from its formidable competition– emphasis on “help.” Just about every brand’s got one of these little cute utes– Toyota’s RAV-4 and Honda’s CRV are on their third-generation– and they all drive with ever-increasing "car-like" aplomb. Nissan’s blend of tech makes it the least rut-going of the top CUVs, but arguably the best on the boulevard. To stand out, though, the Rouge needs to, well, be a rogue. It’s not.

In terms of size, weight, engine output and gas mileage, the three CUVs cited above are virtually identical. The Rogue loses 15 cubic feet of cargo area due to its sleek lines. It does have The Mother of All Gloveboxes, and lots of clever cubbies for iPods, laptops and meal cards. The back has a very cool tray-size nook that, left open, separates pom-poms from Evian bottles from your backpack. And…?

The Nissan Rogue seems like it’s still in high school, trying to fit in, afraid to be really different. (You remember what happened to the deeply dorky Quest minivan?) The Rogue’s cuter than most of the other cute utes, but that’s a subjective judgment that doesn’t guarantee the model a seat at the CUV table. To be Nissan’s hero, the Rogue would have to exhibit some really extraordinary ability. That it doesn’t.

Nissan Altima Coupe Review

2008 Nissan Altima Coupe



By Megan Benoit

Nissan says the Altima Coupe was designed separately from the Altima sedan. It’s a different car, from the ground-up. Roger that. Not since the Chevrolet Lumina Sedan and Minivan have two more disparate vehicles shared the same name. While Chrysler’s auto show folk are talking-up the joys of a “shared genetic pool,” the Altima Coupe 3.5SE isn’t even swimming in the same ocean as the sedan. In fact, the Altima Coupe deserves a sexier name, something distinctive, with more panache. I suggest “Accord-killer,” but it’s unlikely to get approved by any legal department, anywhere.

A quick tour around the Altima Coupe reveals the missing link; Nissan took the 3.5SE to Infiniti and beyond. From the side, the two-door Altima is nearasdammit a dead ringer for the new G37. Sure, they changed the headlights and taillights, gave it dumpier base trim and hood strakes (and aren’t charging you an arm and a leg for it). But the DNA is there. Chrome milk moustache non-withstanding, the 3.5SE Altima Coupe is a whole lot of sexy. It’s every bit as hot looking as the new Accord Coupe is not, and a fair piece cheaper.

One sit behind the base 3.5SE’s wheel shows why this bad boy is a bargain basement bomber. The base SE comes with cloth seats and the most basic of pseudo-luxury accoutrements, including push-button engine start and stop and one of those nagging fuel economy gauges that tries to guilt you into punching the gas less. But there is nothing to dispel the notion that you’re in a souped-up economy car. Sure, the fancier options are there, but if your style is ‘shut up and drive,’ being able to forego leather seats and premium audio is a bonus.

Yes, the 3.5SE’s cabin is nicer than many of its Japanese rivals, but oy, the ergonomics. The shoulder bolsters were more than a tad overly-bolstered (and I’m not exactly a football player), the center armrest is ill-positioned and the entire interior had the most overpowering new car smell I’ve ever suffered.

But by far the worst offender: the system used to move the passenger seat forward so the few and the damned (damned few?) can enter the backseat. Nissan's placed the latch on the far side of the passenger seat, where only the driver can see and reach it, and only while they’re seated. Forcing the driver to move the seat is cruel and unusual punishment.

Engine on, and all is forgiven (for the driver anyway). In terms of sheer engine performance, Goldilocks couldn’t ask for a better whip. The 2.5S is too slow. The G37 is too expensive. In terms of horsepower to dollars to curb weight, the 3.5SE Coupe just nails it. Zero to sixty takes just 5.8 seconds. The high-revving, hefty Accord feels downright sluggish next to this beast. Astonishingly, the Altima has more torque and horsepower and better gas mileage.

No matter what you’re doing, prodding the gas is immensely, intensely and immediately satisfying. A cackle-worthy exhaust note would be the cherry on the icing on the cake. The 3.5SE's six-speed manual is better than Nissan’s standard fare, delivering unrestricted access to every last one of the 350SE Coupe’s 270 horses. If you start comparing it to better gearboxes… just offer a silent prayer that it’s not a CVT.

In terms of handling, the 3.5SE’s a front wheel-drive car. Push it and you’ll be "rewarded" by the gradual onset of understeer. Thankfully, tight proportions (a small wheelbase and a stubby rear) mean you never feel like the nose is trying to plow a path to scenery, or an angry god controls the tail end. It’s Goldilocks material again: smooth, safe and predictable.

Nissan has even managed to keep the torque steer demons at a distance, although uncomfortably numb steering is the regrettable result. Once you get used to the anesthetic helm, you can cane the 3.5SE like a pro– just don’t expect the sort of feedback you’d get from a car that really knows its way around a track.

The 3.5SE’s highway ride is comfortably quiet, with little wind noise and a moderate amount of tire roar. Around town, the 3.5SE’s suspension absorbs bumps and potholes with ease. Standard safety features won't win any awards; even stability control costs you extra. Stripper lover's alert: nearly everything is optional. The Altima is a blank slate with a fast engine, just waiting for you to customize with your choice of toys. Or not.

So the 3.5SE’s dead sexy, has the guts to match and starts at $24k. Not to put too fine a point on it, that’s the sort of price point that pisses in Subaru and Honda’s Wheaties. If you’re less than six feet tall, emo-thin and don’t need space for more than two, I can’t think of a car in its class that presents a better performance bargain.

Nissan Murano LE Review

2009 Nissan Murano



By Michael Martineck

Nissan claims the Murano was the first crossover. Subaru claims that "honor" for the Forester. I think the first crossover was probably some variant of the Model T. Ladder frame construction or no, I'm never exactly sure what constitutes a CUV or SUV. Besides, as most truck buyers neither tow nor venture off-road, it's what semanticists call an invidious distinction. In other words, who cares? The more important question is whether or not a particular vehicle has the looks, packaging and performance it needs to survive. The new Nissan Murano must, again, still, stand on its own merits. Does it?

For 2009, Nissan has re-mixed rather than reinvented the Murano. The next gen uni-body trucklet is the same size and basic shape as the previous version. Equally important, the new Murano's turned its back on the industry trend towards bloat; it's only slightly heavier than its predecessor. And despite its generous proportions, Nissan also resisted the urge to add some kind of flip-up rear cushion and claim seven-passenger status.

In terms of artistic expression, Nissan's started to stray. The "old" Murano had more than a few "challenging" design elements. The update takes all these style points and exaggerates them. Some of the mods work. The rear glass now bows out like an astronaut's helmet. The front hood bows in, dune buggy-style, creating sensual fenders. The rear hatch's looks are color dependent; it appears slim and svelte in black, puffy and plump in white.

On the downside, Nissan did nothing to ameliorate the Murano's triangular C-pillar/blind spot. Maybe they didn't see it. But no one will miss the Murano's new, Hannibal Lector-esque front fascia. Love it or hate it, I hate it. It strikes a major discordant note in an otherwise coherent design. The website proclaims "There's no such thing as too much style." Twenty-seven lights, boxes and chevrons say otherwise.

By the same token, the Murano's cabin suffers from what the music industry calls over-production. A superabundance of creases, nooks and grooves evokes 80's artists' visions of future airports. The vinyl-record-sized gauges light up inside and around the edges, screaming "look at me." The center console combines vertical controls with a horizontal mini-desk and an LCD monitor. Perhaps after you've read "Nissan Murano for Dummies" it'll all make sense. I never figured out how to redirect the heater's airflow.

The materials are first class though– especially if you opt for double-stitched leather. In fact, the LE serves as a showcase for Nissan's current cache of optional features: a headline grabbing dual-plane moon roof that covers both sets of seats, mood lighting that belongs in a loft-living bachelor's pad, a power lift gate and power-fold rear seats. The optional gizmology count is also high: a 9.3-gig music hard drive, Bluetooth and iPod connectivity and a key you can leave in your pants (or are you just happy to see me?).

Nissan's blessed their crossover's VQ-series V6 power plant with another 25 horses (up to 265hp), hitched-up to Nissan's second-generation Xtronic continuously variable transmission. There's significantly more in-gear urge underfoot, and the transmission no longer feels like a giant rubber band straining to stretch (thanks in part to the more powerful engine). Better yet: the Murano's fuel economy gains one EPA mpg in the city cycle (18/23).

Despite its newfound speed, the Altima-platformed Murano's feather-light steering and body float leave no doubt that corner carvers need to step up to (and stump up for) an Infiniti EX (better platform despite similar size), or consider Mazda's CX-9. The Murano LE's 20" wheels add grip and plenty o' bling, but make for a bouncy ride over big bumps. Shod with standard 18" footwear, I can well believe Nissan's claims for increased chassis rigidity and decreased noise. Listening to the beehive transmission proved the point; I had to strain to hear it, as opposed to work to ignore it.

To verify the Murano's cold weather capabilities, I tested the CUV in both virgin snow and pre-trampled cake. For comparison sake, I ran the course in a 2007 Murano and the fully loaded 2009 tester. While the differences between past and present Muranos are slim, the 2009 is the best choice for slippery stuff. It's superbly balanced and grabbed traction with almost disappointing (for hoons) alacrity.

The Nissan Murano hasn't been doing all that well in the sales charts lately. The company skipped the '08 model year; ‘07 sales were off six percent. With its upgraded engine and interior and raft of new options, the redesigned model is a safe bet to please the Murano's fan base. Strange to say, the big question is whether or not the new nose job will attract or repel style-conscious cross-shoppers. If so, the Murano will easily weather the hard times ahead. If not, not.

Nissan Armada LE 4×4 Review

By Mike Solowiow

Nissan wants you to buy the Armada LE 4×4 to "Live Big." Someone needs to tell these guys that conspicuous consumption is dead– at least for those car buyers who can no longer afford it. While the high and low ends of the SUV market are still relatively robust, big-ass trucks in the former "sweet spot" are giving potential buyers a toothache. It may have something to do with the price of gas. Or ruinous depreciation. Which is a shame. The Nissan Armada is a damn Skippy good truck; you know, if you used to like that kind of thing.

The Armada is a paid-up subscriber to the Japanese school of design. Small details rule. The rounded arches over the Armada's doors look cool. Hidden rear door handles get props. Now, take a step back… Another one… NOW you can see that those bulging fenders are more Mitsubishi Starion shazzam than Audi Quattro cool. Who the Hell would be fooled into thinking the Armada only has two doors? And yes, that Nissan emblem on the grill really IS the size of a dinner plate.

Taken as a whole, the Armada is a mish-mash of bulky truck clichés. I'm not saying it's derivative, but the Honda Pilot, Land Rover Discovery and Chevrolet Tahoe called. They want their everything back.

Climbing into the Armada's cabin, I got lost. Tom Tom says turn left at the center arm rest, another left at the climate control, and you will arrive at the steering wheel. Nissan has upgraded the SUV's cavernous interior to great effect. Acres of dash are covered in sensually squidgy plastics in pleasant desert hues. Buttons still litter the center stack layout like scattered Lego, but a cool aluminum iDrive-like twist knob below an LCD screen makes access to ancillary systems easy.

The strip of ersatz timber separating the upper and lower dash and the silver plastic surrounding the Armada's shifter are about as convincingly upmarket as $10 Prada sunglasses. Escaping the aesthetic affront presents its own set of challenges; access to the way back requires agility, persistence, experience and a ready supply of Shrek Band-Aids.

For the 2007 model year, Nissan upgraded the SUV's 300bhp 5.6-liter V8 to a more robust 315bhp (or 317, depending on which promotional materials you read). This launches the Black Pearl-sized vessel from no-wake to an ocean-going 60mph in about 7.5 seconds. Unlike the Tundra-based Sequoia, the Titan-based Armada is in no hurry to prove the point. The big Nissan's tip-in is leisurely, and the five-speed slushbox likes any gear as long as it's the one that delivers the best fuel economy.

Speaking of which, the Armada's V8 is touted as the world's most efficient 5.6-liter V8! AND the gigantic FlexFuel badges proclaim the truck's E85 ability. Yes, well, you'd have to be a well-heeled corn grower to put up with 25 percent to 30 percent less fuel efficiency than the Armada's "normal" 15mpg EPA combined cycle.

How Nissan made the Armada handle as well as the smaller XTerra amazes me. With nearly three tons of mass pushing at marginally adequate tires, the Armada rolls only slightly, hangs on, and never loses its composure. Broken pavement causes the front end to skip to the side, but control quickly returns.

Obviously, no one takes an Armada around a corner. But if you did, understeer rules the day. Still, you never feel as though the Nissan really WANTS to plow straight ahead into the nearest guard rail. The options list included speed-sensitive steering. The only change I felt was a gentle transition from finger-twirling light, to not-quite-a-zombie on center helmsmanship. To feel the road in an Armada means pulling over and getting out. Which, in a beast weighing 5675lbs, might take a while.

Off-road, the Armada reveals its true purpose: the school run. Dial the switch to 4×4 High, wait ‘til the light goes out and then… fuhgeddaboutit. The standard running boards snag everything taller than forest squirrels. Grinning slightly at the amused salesman when we got high centered at the Land Rover off-road demo course, I engaged 4×4 Low, felt a shimmy and a crunch. And then the body quivered as the Armada scraped its belly off the obstacle. Not exactly safari material.

Who cares? There are very few full-size SUVs that shouldn't be something else. For the most part, these days, they are. Only their ancestors still roam the earth, sucking gas, threatening to squish all those funny-looking CUVs and the, what do they call them? Cars. Still, if you're one of those people who doesn't know when to leave a party, the Armada is a solid choice. It's comfy, safe (at least for you), tows stuff and, uh, that's it.

Nissan Cube Review

By Jonny Lieberman

After spending a few days in Nissan's Cube, I was reminded of Los Angeles' historic Mar Vista Housing tract. Built in the 1940s by designer Gregory Ain, the development deployed basic shapes (squares and rectangles) to give the suburban spread a high degree of architectural sophistication. Of course, people considered these "flat roof" houses a commie plot; builders only erected 52 of the planned 100 homes. The Nissan Cube sells for $11k in Japan. In the same way as Mar Vista, the Cube offers a whole lot of chic for a little bit of green.

At first glance, all you see is a box. But the Cube is a subversive piece of sheetmetalistry. First of all, it's brilliantly asymmetrical. The rear hatch is in fact rounded glass on one corner, whereas the other holds the hinges. Second, the Cube rolls on four round wheels (surprise!). Yes, well, the circle motif playfully contrasts against the cubism. The grill, wheels, headlights and taillights are all actually circles on squares.

The design brings to mind the episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm where Larry orders a "Vanilla Bullshit" at Starbucks and starts exclaiming, "Coffee and milk! Milk and coffee! What a great idea!" Sometimes you don't need a grand, flame-surfacing language that speaks (only) to art school deans. More to the point, an entire coffee shop full of hot moms emptied out into a parking lot to "ooh!" and "ahhh!" over the khaki-colored Cube. Let's see you pull that trick in a Bangled Bimmer.

This simple-yet-clever styling motif continues inside. That's right, the dials, seat pattern and even plastic molding on the glovebox are all circles on squares. Other than that, there isn't much to write home about. On a postcard.

Calling the Cube "Spartan" is like calling water wet. Yet there is much to like about the minimalist treatment. For instance, a column shifter leaves room for a bench seat. There's a hunk of plastic molding in back that stores an umbrella. And if playing drug runner is your thing, the Cube has more smuggling compartments than the Millennium Falcon. Handy cubbyholes abound, including two glove boxes. Most importantly, you can haul mucho stuff, especially with the back seats down and scooched forward.

A couple of points before I share my driving experiences…

Nissan was kind enough to lend me a JDM (Japanese Domestic Market) car. That means the steering wheel's on the wrong (right!) side. The Japanese juice box's 1.4-liter engine has as much chance of making it to the States as Ron Paul has of making it to the White House… with Mike Gravel as his running mate. An all new, US-bound Cube debuts at this year's Los Angeles Auto show. Figure on the Versa's 1.8-liter four-pot scrunched under the hood.

The JDM car packs about 90 horses and not a lot of torque (if you can translate Japanese, have it). You'd expect that confronting American traffic in a low-po Cube would be a terrifying experience for all concerned. ("Honey, did we just squish something?") Here's the thing: it's absolutely not. Even with the extra weight of the Cube's all wheel-drive components (more on that in a bit), the Nissan tips the scales at just 2400 pounds.

I'm guesstimating a zero to 60 time of, oh, I don't know, 15 seconds. The Cube's statistical sloth makes getting onto the freeway a theoretically dangerous exercise. But the funny thing about reality is that it's always disproving the most logical theories. The Cube's no rocket, but around town it felt fine. Quick, even. While 90 mph is all she wrote, passing people is possible. Instead of lightly drubbing the Cube's throttle, you just bury it.

Even better, once at speed, the Cube is wonderfully composed. I was shocked by its sporting agility; we're talking Honda Fit-like handling. Meanwhile, the high seating position makes you feel like one of the big boys.

As mentioned, our Cube featured AWD. More precisely, e-4WD, and it's not what you think. The engine never powers the rear wheels. Instead, Nissan fitted a small electric motor to one of the half-shafts. Stuck in some sloppy footing? Flip a switch and the alternator sends power back to the rear wheels; talk about traction on demand.

The final part of my endorsement equation is this: have you been to the pumps lately? Nissan made me promise to go easy on the Cube, as only five exist in the country, they don't have any spare parts and no one knows how to fix them. Regardless, the Cube returned an honest-to-goodness 40 mpg.

So, besides cost, brand cachet (but not cachet) and more power than you need (be honest), what are you giving up with the Cube? In a word, nothing.

Nissan GT-R Review

2009 Nissan GT-R



Nissan GT-R: World´s 1st Full Test - Inside Line Exclusive



By Stephan Wilkinson

The GT-R is the blind date everybody’s been telling you about for months: incredible body, second in her class at Harvard, fabulous conversationalist, star athlete. Then you meet her. Yes, she has obvious “assets,” but nobody mentioned the halitosis. She graduated with a B.A. in accounting. She’s a great conversationalist, but her voice sounds like run-flat tires with three-inch sidewalls running over a concrete-aggregate rumble and tar-strip slap. She's an athlete, but a grunting shot-putter, not a Sharapova. In short, the GT-R is SO not a supermodel.

I spent 1,450 miles inside a Nissan GT-R in early April, flying through the deserts of Nevada and central California. I didn't notch 193mph, the GT-R's top speed. But I (or you) could have done so with ease. I decided not to approach this limit to preserve my license. In fact, the Nissan coupe plants itself on the road better than any car I've ever driven.

Stretching the GT-R’s legs on an open Nevada two-lane road was so simple that my 28-year-old daughter could repeat the process a few minutes later while I lazed in the right seat. When we passed opposite-direction tandem tractor-trailers on these empty highways, it was as though the GT-R slipped by a Smart. With a Cd of .27 and just enough downforce in all the right places, aerodynamics are apparently a lot of what allows this car to go so fast so easily.

If there's anything to criticize about the GT-R's handling— I also spent an afternoon with the car lapping the mickey mouse Reno-Fernley Raceway— it's the steering. While the helm’s quick and precise, it’s strangely numb and electric-feeling. The Japanese still have a lot to learn from Porsche here, but the GT-R is ridiculously nimble for a two-tonner (with driver and gas).

Two of the car's most highly touted features baffle me, though. One is the endlessly configurable instrument display, called-up via the nav screen. Nissan readily admits that it “was inspired by videogames.” It’s not what you’d call useful– unless you're intent on studying steering-wheel deflection, slip angle, transmission-oil pressure and brake-pedal position while late-apexing an off-ramp. It's the geek equivalent of the complex chronographs of the 19th century: pocket watches that read out everything from the tides to your mistress's menstrual cycle.

The GT-R’s fiddly “launch mode” for maximum acceleration (meaning turbo spool-up) is also a curiosity. It will amuse those who haven't an ounce of mechanical sensibility who don't mind abusing machinery. Actual GT-R owners will use it a few times to amuse the neighbors, and then will realize that they're still making payments on the $70,000+ appliance they're brutalizing. Even Nissan told me to only use it "once or twice."

For me, the car's tires are the biggest turnoff. Quick! Name a single benefit to run-flats. They're noisy, expensive, difficult to repair and can only dismount with special machinery. I don't have a spare in my 911 either, since a fuel cell fills the trunk, but I use Ride-On to seal its tires permanently. (No, Ride-On has nothing in common with Slime or Fix-a-Flat.) The Bridgestones on the GT-R are so loud they negate the Bose sound system; a Costco Kenwood would have sufficed amid the din.

Obviously, this car's numbers– whether we're talking racetrack lap times, zero to sixty or MSRP– are stunning. We all know that GT-Rs are lapping the Nordschleife faster and faster, that they out-accelerate Porsche Turbos and ZO6s and cost $69,850 (plus “market adjustment fees…”). There's a lot to like about this car, but is it the ultimate, the Godzilla, the Nurburgring killa?

Who cares? Acquiring a supercar, rather than fantasizing about one, faces the buyer with a decision with vastly more to do with real-world attributes than with video games, bad movies and teen fetishes. (Admittedly, the last video game I played was Space Invaders.) It fascinated me that nobody in Nevada or California noticed the GT-R, other than carwash attendants, 14-year-olds with mullets and every parking valet in Vegas. The rest of the world walked on by, assuming they’d encountered a new Toyota Supra.

Seventeen years ago, the first Japanese supercar arrived in the States: the Acura NSX. Fabulous numbers, a half-price Ferrari, buff-book craziness, slavering car writers, rumored to be the benchmark for the McLaren F1, development work by Ayrton Senna… So where did the NSX go? Ultimately, it became the orthodontist's car, when the world went back to buying Porsches and real Ferraris. Care to take bets on what will happen to the GT-R?

Bottom line: the car world may have gone cuckoo for Coco Puffs over the GT-R but it’s ultimately a pointless, nerdy, twin-turbo, electronics-laden technological curiosity.

Mitsubishi Eclipse GT Review

2009 Mitsubishi Eclipse GT



By Robert Farago

It's been a while since I've driven a death car. My mind casts back to tail-happy 911's, centrifugal Corvettes, terrifying TVR's and flaming Ferraris. These days, very few car companies build cars that seduce you into serious speed, then blow up, fall apart, flip over and/or throw you into a solid object. I reckon I've survived enough motorized mayhem to know a death machine when I Ford GT one. So I was a little surprised when I turned at a four-way intersection, squeezed the gas and nearly drove the new Mitsubishi Eclipse GT into a parked car.

Torque steer. It's that squirrelly squirming sensation that tells you that a front-wheel-drive car's driven wheels are desperately scrabbling for grip. The Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is a torque steer poster child. Feed the Eclipse's 263hp engine some major revs and mid-course corrections are instantly out of the question– and that's WITH traction control. All you can do is saw away at the steering wheel, back off the gas and wait for the tires to grab enough tarmac to return you to normal programming.

The Eclipse's tendency to lose traction at the front end is not quite as bad as hydroplaning, but only because it doesn't last as long. And it's true: you can avoid the problem by babying the gas pedal. But here's the problem: an enthusiast can no more resist giving the Eclipse GT's go pedal a proper pasting than they can avoid thumbing through sleazy car mags at a drug store.

Equipped with 'Mitsubishi Innovative Variable timing and lift Electronic Control' (MIVEC), the Eclipse's 3.8-liter V6 powerplant pours on the power from the basement to the penthouse. At the same time, the GT's coffee-can exhaust emits a mid-range zizz that hardens into a determined wail as you enter MIVEC-ian hyperspace. The Eclipse GT's six has so much sonic character that you blip the throttle for the Hell of it, lower the windows before entering tunnels and hold onto gear changes just because you can.

You see my problem? The Eclipse's engine constantly begs for a bloody good thrashing. It gets worse. Floor the free-revving GT in second gear, or third. Once again, the steering wheel torques back. At that point, you're going at least 50mph– which is more than fast enough to make the sudden loss of directional stability a life-threatening experience. If you happen to be cornering at the time, it's worse squared. The Eclipse GT has both an incurable understeer addiction AND a weight problem. When this sucker starts a nose-first slide towards the scenery, well, it's gonna be a while before helm control is yours for the taking. Did I mention that the GT feels a bit skittish at highway speeds?

In short, the Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is the kind of car Prince Charles would have bought his ex-wife if she'd survived her Parisian jaunt that fateful August morning.

Mind you, the Eclipse would have been a far more a stylish way to go than Dodi's S-Class sedan. Mitsubishi's swoopy coupe is a glorious gallimaufry of design cues: a hint of Nissan 350Z, a touch of Lexus SC430, a dash of Audi TT, a reminiscence of Pontiac Grand Am. Put it all together and what have you got? God knows, but it ain't dull. The Eclipse GT's furiously funky shape is adorned with wikkid details, from a windshield so severely raked it could almost double as a coffee table, to a drilled aluminum gas cap (Audi again). Clock that wasp waist, bodacious butt, blistered arches and jewel-effect lenses. These Mitsubishi guys are sick.

The Eclipse's interior is also a stylish step up from generic Japanese. Little details entrance: baseball glove stitching on the shift knob, body-hugging racing seats, sculpted metal door pulls. The GT's [optional] nine-speaker, 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo– complete with trunk-mounted 10' subwoofer– tells you all you need to know about Mitsubishi's ability to tune in to the youth market. Now, will someone please tell carmakers that a digital display needn't look a digital watch?

And while you're at it, who's going to convince Mitsubishi to give the Eclipse GT all-wheel-drive? The company steadfastly maintains that the market doesn't want it. They report that just 3% of consumers who bought the last gen Eclipse signed-up for power to all four corners. And? Need we raise the thorny issue of mortality rates, lawsuits and the like? Or should we stick with the carrot, and point out that the GT is only a viscous coupling away from greatness?

I'm serious. If Mitsubishi could tame the Eclipse's torque steer, the car's fresh design, cracking engine, silken six speed gearbox, robust chassis, superb brakes and entirely reasonable sticker price would make it one of the best sports coupes of our time. As it is, the Eclipse scares me to death.

Mitsubishi Evo IX MR Review

By Andrew Comrie-Picard

There’s an industrial road outside Chicago that has more Mitsubishi Lancer Evolutions per square mile than anywhere but the factory in Mizushima, Japan. There’s the drag race shop with several 600+hp, carbon- paneled versions vying for space. There’s the tuner shop where literally dozens of Evos flock to dyno. And there’s the rally shop that is widely considered the finest American skunkworks for this type of car. And as I stand in that shop, my own flame-spitting Evo IV rally car sitting on the hoist behind me, I stare at a brand-new charcoal Evo IX MR – the even-higher-performance-spec version – that has only 70 miles on it. And the perfect impression of a tree trunk, molded into the passenger’s side.

The sight is sobering. I mean, I’ve been driving my own Evo on dirt and snow rally roads for years, at speeds regularly over 120mph, and I’ve never hit a tree like this poor schmuck did. But then I’ve been rallying for a long time and have enough stupid crashes on my permanent record to know better than continue down that path (and over the forest and into the tree). Fortunately, there’s another near-new Evo IX MR sitting outside, and the owner foolishly throws me the keys.

I’m not a boy racer. I’m not even a boy. But boy, the IX MR is quite a car. It’s not particularly elegant; the best you could say is that the fender flares, sharp nose, deep chin, and hard-edged wing make it handsome and sinewy. The interior is downright plain for a $35k sports sedan (OK – the Recaro seats are awesome). Unmodified, it actually sits a little too high on its wheels. Unless you know what it is, you’d probably think this bewinged extrovert is like your little brother: high on bluster but slow on the delivery.

But this is your little brother who becomes the school track star and steals your girlfriend. Specs never tell the whole story, but 286hp, AWD with an active center differential, huge Brembo brakes, and all-aluminum suspension arms make for a good opening paragraph. The story continues when you fire up the 2.0L intercooled turbo engine – in the IX for the first time with variable valve timing – and it settles into a contented purr. It’s not until you really get into the throttle that the thing takes off like a scalded cat, albeit a scalded cat with its claws dug about two feet into the pavement.

I can tell you with some authority that this is one of the five best handling cars available in North America. Certainly it is one of two for less than $35k, and it has four doors and a trunk to boot. It’s better than the Subaru WRX STi – tighter, better balanced, transitions faster, feels lighter. The Subaru actually has a better drive layout, with the engine mass lower and the transmission further back, but by sheer bloody-minded suspension engineering the Evo wins hands down.

Yes, the ride is harsh and the appointments spare. But the turn-in is astonishing – sneeze and you’ll change three lanes – and once you’re sliding, you can drift the car in fourth gear, tires smoking, the world coming at you through the side window, correcting with your fingertips. Wanna feel like a superhero? This is your fastest ticket.

Except physics is a hard mistress, and trees are hard objects. Even the Evo can’t give you more run-out room when you simply went in too fast. In fact, it sort of cheats you: it allows you to go so close to the edge – even over the edge – then gather it all up again, time after time. Except that last time when nothing – not your skill, not your pleas to the heavens, and not even the Evo – can save you from being an idiot.

Anyway, the IX MR is that kind of car: a machine that goes so bloody quick so bloody easily that thoughts of death are necessary to prevent its occurrence. And no wonder: the IX MR is an evolution of an earlier Lancer and, before that, the Galant VR4 of the early 1990s. The Evo is, essentially, a Japanese Porsche 911, constantly honed with one thing in mind: dominant performance for a given drive layout. It’s amazing that a company still struggling to find its place in the North American market can produce a single model that is so focused, desirable and damn near perfect that they hardly need to market it.

And so, after having driven perhaps a dozen Evos in anger over the last few years, there’s a new Evo IX RS – the even-lighter-weight version – sitting in my shop, taunting me, about to be built into my next rally car. So much for trying not to be an idiot.

Mitsubishi Galant Review

By Sajeev Mehta

This website has consistently and persistently lambasted The Big 2.5 for depending on fleet sales to keep the factories churning. As reported here and elsewhere, Detroit has finally responded to industry criticism that cranking-out sub-par transportation for fleet consumption drags down vehicle quality, resale value and image. They’ve sworn off rental car crack. Gradually, eventually, they’ll leave Alamo, Hertz, Avis, etc. behind and take their chances on the dealer’s lot. All of which makes room for… the Mitsubishi Galant!

The ninth gen Galant gets some new threads. The proportions aren’t bad, and its strong, chiseled shoulders meld into perfectly proportioned, smoked Altezza taillights. (Who knew that Malibu and sake mixed?) From the side, the Galant’s soaring beltline conforms to The Law of Unintended Aesthetic Consequences; the rear doors look like Lulu the Fat Lady’s thighs. Up front, the aesthetically challenged hood blister meets up with a finned grille, complete with shiny-happy chrome smile underneath. All in all, the Galant is handsome enough– to wear the rental car cloak of invisibility.

As befitting this erstwhile honor, the Galant's interior is as about as cool as drinking milk from a sports bottle. From its brittle switchgear to its rotary knobs soaked in molasses to its rubbery steering wheel, Mitsubishi's sedan-starlet does the near-impossible: falls to match GM's mediocre advancements in interior excellence. While the Mitsu's panel gaps are fingernail thin and the aluminum-effect trim livens-up the dour dollops of flat black, the cabin’s mix of jutting planes, bloated curves and cheap plastics make the Galant ready for the rental car return row, like, now.

Grab your luggage and another problem creeps up; the Galant's strut assists make closing the decklid a challenge for one hand, and unnecessary effort for two. The resonating "thonk" following said action is about as reassuring as a stand up comic moonlighting as a bereavement counselor. The Galant's lack of fold down rear seating is another solid miss.

That said, the rear accommodations are more than slightly salubrious. The fabrics are a pleasing blend of luxury, style and durability, wrapping the finest set of foam cushioning this side of an Olds 88 Royale Brougham. Who needs a folding park bench when the alternative is so much better for the back and the booty? The couch isn't just the Galant's best attribute; it’s class-leading mother-in-law kvetch protection.

The Galant’s standard 140-watt, six speaker, MP3-ready sound system also deserves special mention. Actually that's a lie. By itself, the beatbox is nothing special. Factor in its ability to overpower the Galant's 2.4-liter buzz box under the hood and it becomes an absolute lifesaver. The MIVEC-tuned four-pot motor makes a respectable 160hp @ 5500 revs, but clock the tachometer above 3500rpm and this mill is ready to rattle itself to pieces. Runs to redline are accompanied by an intake-wheez so strong you can feel the Galant begging for your right foot for mercy.

The Galant’s “Sportronic” automatic serves-up a quartet of cogs with wide-ass gear ratios; a holdover from a time when it was OK to keep a rock as a pet (don’t ask). The Galant's powertrain– and I use that term in its full ironic sense– is no match for the smooth operators available in baseline Camrys and Accords. Even worse, with 3439 pounds of sedan to tote from the airport to the meeting/Disneyworld and back, the Galant's wounded snail pace (zero to 60 in 8.9 very loud seconds) should come as no surprise– at least until you try to merge on the highway.

Curiously, the entry level Galant doesn’t offer ABS braking as standard; you have to upgrade to the ES or “Extra Stuff” model (I swear I’m not making that up) to get Electronic Brakeforce Distribution. At least the Galant has enough airbags to seduce the Stay Puft Man and a front and side five-star government safety rating.

Which is just as well. Although the Galant is about as close to being a rocket ship as a block of cement, it can, eventually, reach normal automotive speeds. Once there, drivers will discover that the Galant's steering, shifting and throttle response were originally extras in The Dead Hate the Living.

The harder you push the Galant, the dumber you feel for bothering. Before unloading SUV-levels of understeer, the Galant pitches under cornering load and dives prodigiously in panic stops. Thrifty drivers on a Budget will get no kicks remembering the Alamo on a twisty on ramp or, more likely, circling for a parking space in a hotel parking lot. At least the four corner disc brakes keep the "fun" in check without hesitation or complaint.

Years ago, the market decided Mitsubishi's bread-and-butter sedan couldn’t hold a spent glow stick to the Camcordima. The market is still right; the Galant deserves its place in rental car infamy. As you will someday learn.

Mitsubishi Outlander Review

By Sajeev Mehta

CUV’s are nothing more than oversized station wagons on stilts. If you think about it– and not many American motorists have– CUV’s don’t work like a truck OR handle like a car. I wouldn't say they’re the worst of both worlds, but others have. In fact, the modern CUV may just be a marketing-driven gimmick designed to take one last shot at emigrating gas guzzlers before they get down from their perch and do something really sensible, like buy a car. No wonder Mitsubishi’s website says the Outlander doesn’t like labels any more than I do.

“Stylish” certainly fits. The Outlander's sheetmetal is sports sedan crisp with just enough static lines and ground clearance to assure the macho-minded that “Outlander” isn't the ancient Scottish term for “mall rat.” The CUV’s front end translates the usual SUV design cues into a host of smooth textures, understated lighting pods and clean surface transitions. The rear follows suit with ample glass, logical lines and an integral diffuser in its snazzy rear valence. It’s all very chi-chi.

Thankfully, the Triple-Diamond Boys left the SUV genre’s hose-it-down heritage outside the doors. The Outlander offers a symphony of touchy-feely polymers, panel gap precision and Audi-esque minimalism. Clock the way the Outlander’s beat box integrates into the dashboard’s horizontal sweep. Seamless. Even the nasty stuff– like the imitation aluminum trim surrounding the motorcycle-chic gauge cluster– looks cool.

Tick the right boxes and the Outlander’s got the right box of tricks. The optional 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo (named after the Firebird Esprit-driving TV detective) has more than enough power to make your dental fillings shake and shiver. It’s a Sirius piece of kit. The sat nav system can store 1200 songs, keep track of your Bluetooth and guide you to your dentist. And you can order a drop-down DVD system to keep the kids amused.

Clearly, Mitsubishi decided to go down the high content route for their latest foray into Crossover County. Even the base Outlander’s luxurious velour-trimmed body huggers are a welcome surprise at this price point, providing all-over comfort for humans both large and small. While the second row slides forward, there’s only one failsafe way to avoid Amnesty International’s condemnation of the Outlander’s “compact jump seats”: opt for the cheaper two row model.

The Outlander’s trick flap-fold tailgate is its party piece. The gate’s flush-fitting lower half unfolds from the bumper for slide and schlep Home Despots and/or doubles as a picnic table for pee-wee football tailgaters. On paper, the Outlander has a class average cargo hole. In real life, the model’s chunky-hunky D-pillar makes it possible to fit big ass square pegs into a moderately sized square hole.

More proof of the Outlander’s value-oriented proposition lies underhood. The MIVEC-tuned 3.0-liter V6 puts out a respectable 220hp and 204 lb-feet of twist (albeit high atop its powerband). Hooked-up to a standard six-speed autobox, there’s plenty of poke and reasonable fuel efficiency for city commuting (20mpg) and highway cruising (27mpg).

Hang on. Peep the strut tower brace under the hood and [optional] magnesium shift paddles. Could the Outlander’s Lancer underpinnings and available full-time four-wheel drive indicate that we’ve rocked-up in a family-friendly EVO in crossover guise?

Nope. The Outlander’s powerplant has less low-end grunt than your grandmother's vintage Osterizer, while the steering is completely vague about the whole torque steer issue. Push it hard into a bend and the softly sprung dynamics serve up a major slathering of understeer on a supersized body roll. The 3500lb Outlander is tuned for touring duty and nothing more.

Much like the omnipresent road noise at highway speeds, the Outlander’s dynamic bits get old in a hurry. While Mitsubishi touts "rally inspired control and fun unheard of in a family vehicle," the rally involved must have been political and the fun in question has a lot more to do with scaring kids than thrilling adults. Any off-roading more ambitious than an unplowed driveway is equally off limits.

The Mitsubishi's ride strikes an ideal balance between road feel and comfort. As long as you drive responsibly, the chassis will iron out irregularities and crush potholes. Motorsport heritage aside, it’s obvious Mitsubishi put a strut brace under the hood to avoid family fatigue during your next road trip.

In fact, the Outlander is a modern day station wagon, with all the stylistic charms, family friendly gadgets and timeless comfort that implies (“Mommy! He hit me!”). Its dash of panache, impressive standard features, trick tailgate and under 25 large asking price make the Outlander an attractive value proposition. That is, after you buy into the need for a tall station wagon.

Mitsubishi Lancer Review

By Justin Berkowitz

In “The Blue-Eyed Salaryman,” American author Niall Murtagh charts his fourteen-year career inside Mitsubishi Japan. When Murtagh gets transferred to Osaka, he concludes that the Tokyo part of the company focuses on large visionary research projects, while Osaka demands practical applications. And there you have it: the dichotomy that accounts for Mitsubishi’s progress in the automotive arena. You have visionary products like the Evo with very little practical purpose, and dull products like the Outlander with very little vision. So where does the new Lancer fit?

Never mind the subtext, check out those lines! Designing a good-looking compact car ain’t easy nowadays. You’ve got to maximize interior space, accommodate an expanding complement of airbags and facilitate fuel efficiency (with aerodynamics that force sheetmetal shapes down the slippery slope towards suppository chic). Things can go horribly wrong; reference the Honda Civic sedan. Or the previous Lancer, which was as sexy as dental floss. This one the Mitsubishi design team nailed.

The Lancer’s proportions and details are spot on. The high beltline adds to the impression of size from the outside, yet allows occupants to feel surrounded and safe. The Lancer’s new front fascia copies Audi’s current pig snout and makes it work, flanking the orifice with a set of angry eyes headlights and bisecting the otherwise gaping maw with a suitably wide bumper. Mitsu ripped off the tail lamp design from the Alfa 156– a gorgeous machine that Americans never got the chance to ignore.

The new Lancer is not a stunning design per se– it’s more handsome than drop-dead gorgeous. But it is a stunning development for Mitsubishi. The Lancer is to Mitsubishi what the Altima was to Nissan five years ago: a radical reskin that instantly elevates a plain-Jane model from zero to hero. Unfortunately, the parallel continues inside.

Thanks to Mitsu’s PR paparazzi, the Lancer’s cabin looks decidedly avant-garde. The flacks focused on the steering wheel, perfect in both diameter and thickness (though littered with stereo buttons and Bluetooth phone controls). They highlighted the Lancer’s sport bike-inspired gauges. They flagged its slick stereo, neatly integrated into the dash with precise, Teutonic buttonology.

Off camera, the new Lancer’s interior does the time-warp again. It’s a generic Japanese mishmash fabricated with some of the worst automotive plastics inflicted on U.S. consumers since A Flock of Seagulls first crapped on Top 40 radio, with bulbous switches that feel like they were attached with thumb tacks. The seats are nicely supportive, but why Mitsu decided to support the mouse fur industry by covering the Lancer's chairs and roof with rodent pelts is both an aesthetic and ethical conundrum.

Driving the base model Lancer is an eye-opening experience, especially when you realize that (1) the Evo X will obviously be celestial and (2) THIS is what they started with?

The Lancer is just an awful little car to pilot, for sportster and commuter alike. In the pursuit of a compliant ride, Mitsu has fitted the base car with a suspension made out of Twinkies. Potholes send the car bucking in a fit of confusion. And then there’s body roll. Lots and lots of body roll. Quick turns? Out of the question. (Fast corners make you their bitch.) Within minutes of assuming command, my need for speed did recede. I gave up trying to do anything more than get from Point A to Point B in the space of a single day.

Yes, I know: the Lancer’s an economy car. But it could be the only car sold in America that can make an entry level Toyota Corolla or Hyundai Elantra seem like a sports sedan. And the Lancer only achieves 21/29 mpg. How frugal is that?

The Lancer’s all-new 2.0-liter engine is rated at 152 horses (at an unattainable 6000 rpm). I swear a quarter have bolted for greener pastures. A wide open throttle simply kicks the CVT's droning tone up a notch. This isn’t about being a boy-racer. It’s about needing a sign to apologize to drivers while attempting merges.

What really sucks the life out of the Lancer (and sucks in general): its continuously variable transmission. Unless you opt for the top-o-the-line GTS with fake shift points, the CVT is forever locked into penalty mode. It's no fun at all.

The new Lancer is a research project gone horribly wrong. On paper, it’s a superb vehicle: 150 horsepower, loads of safety features (seven airbags, including the now popular driver's knee airbag), gadget options galore and racy good looks. But it’s all show and no go.

With Mitsubishi’s American operations just climbing out of sea of red ink, it’s too bad the company forgot to benchmark the competitions' driving dynamics. The forthcoming take-no-prisoners Evo version will no doubt sort that out, but after sampling the base Lancer, I highly doubt Mitsubishi’s ability to rescue its American ambitions from the dustbin of history.

Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X Review

BMW 135i and Mitsubishi Lancer Evo X comparison



By Michael Karesh

Anyone who’s driven one of the first nine iterations of the Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution (a.k.a. Evo) approaches the tenth fully expecting chest-flattening acceleration and spleen-rupturing cornering. Obviously, the Evo X’s engine and chassis are bound (and determined) to continue the model’s budget supercar-killer tradition. But there’s another less welcome Evo tradition: denture destroying suspension and a Gladware interior. Will the Evo X’s ride quality and interior materials once again conspire to kill the love for all but the masochists among us?

The Evo’s new X-terior has moved Mitsubishi’s compact sedan from the bargain basement to the penthouse suite. The X’s profile now strongly resembles the Acura TSX and Volvo S40. The new Evo’s snout sports a huge black inverted trapezoid-grille, fender vents, a rear wing and body kit. Thanks to the car’s more svelte shape, the macho mods don’t scream “teenage toy.” Of course, it helps that Audi has made the world safe for gargantuan grilles, and that overpriced body kits are now common on overpriced German machinery.

The old Evo’s interior was cheaper than a one-star Romanian hotel. The new Lancer’s interior is a bit more upmarket, but it’s still a third-rate romance, low rent [Buick] rendezvous. Mitsubishi would have been well-advised to replicate the Alcantara interior of the Prototype X concept. One nit an upholstery shop can’t fix: the semi-swoopy exterior yields a windshield base that stretches out like an African Savanna; it’s a bit alienating for a “driver’s car.” Well-bolstered Recaro seats compensate.

Like just about every car (and person) in recent years, the new Evo’s gained some weight. Yet unlike Subaru, Mitsubishi refused to forsake the World Rally Championship’s 2.0-liter rule in their rally car production variant. Two liters of displacement for a 3500lbs. car? That’s like playing croquet with a toothbrush, isn’t it?

Nope. The Evo’s four-pot may not deliver the Subaru STI’s seamless shove, but once the revs crest 4000 rpm, the Mitsu’s mini-mill pulls like an amphetamine-crazed tractor. We’re torquing 300 ft.-lbs. of twist. And the X’s engine revs so freely that getting into the pleasure zone is not a problem. And then, suddenly, 291 horsepower at 6500 rpm.

Thanks to premium-powered variable valve timing and turbo technology, boost lag is also not an issue– provided you keep the revs up. Otherwise, it’s a second of “what the?” followed by “Holy CRAP!” Missing–and missed: a sixth ratio in the GSR’s manual transmission. The Evo’s engine spins at nearly 3000 rpm at 60mph. An extra cog certainly would have helped boost the mpgs from a never-caned 16/22, in case anyone’s wondering.

The Evo’s strangely-hyphenated, driver-adjustable Super All Wheel-Control deploys a pair of trick, electronically-controlled differentials. Minus the jargon-laden physics lessons and references to the anti-HAL handling nanny (I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid you can’t not do that), the nose-heavy compact feels balanced, agile, controllable, poised, planted, secure, balletic and ballistic.

Like any great driver’s car, the Evo X makes you a better driver than you are without taking you out of the equation (in every sense of the phrase). Point the Evo where you want it to go, and it goes there confidently, smoothly and quickly. The Evo X’s steering isn’t as quick and sharp as before, but compared to just about any other sedan you can buy— including (especially?) BMW’s new M3— it offers a highly responsive, entirely intimate helm.

There’s only one flaw: a tug at the wheel when digging into the throttle on turn exits. Never mind. Whether going, turning, and stopping, the new Evo has an eager, playful nature that’s all-too-uncommon in the post-Lexus age. Mitsubishi’s supercar remains a blast to drive, even in typical suburban driving. At the same time, it feels much more polished and controllable than before. You don’t have to push it hard to enjoy it. And if you do push it hard, you’ll enjoy it even more.

With the old Evo, potential buyers who could see past the crap interior were put off by its rock-hard ride. Here, as elsewhere, the new Evo ups its game without losing its character. No doubt the new lightweight 18” wheels and improved rubber– plenty pricey and not anywhere near immortal asymmetrical Yokohama ADVANS– have helped matters. The Evo’s no more a Lexus than you are, but it’s not a go-kart, either. Some BMWs are worse (128i anyone?).

The new Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X has eliminated the previous car’s faults without killing the joy. The punishment is gone; the fun remains. Unfortunately, there is a new and major downside: price. The Evo’s hardware is a steal for $35,600. That’s premium compact territory– without a premium compact interior or a premium compact brand. Those who can’t see themselves spending thirty-five large for a mainstream extreme machine, or simply don’t have a BMW-sized budget, might be happier in the upcoming Lancer Ralliart. Or not.

MINI Cooper S Review

By Jonny Lieberman

“It handles like a go-cart.” For the past five-years I’ve taken this description of the BMW’s born-again clown car’s dynamics at face value. Living in Los Angeles, I’ve seen more of these faux-Brits than Carnaby Streeters ever did. And I’ve often wondered if the MINI was small and extraordinarily nimble like its forbearer, or just plain small. Other than sipping cheap wine next to the trio of stunt cars used in the third Austin Powers movie, I’d never had a chance to get up close and personal with a MINI. More importantly, I’d never put the British-built roadster’s handling to the test– until this week, when RF charged me with the task of assessing the “old” new MINI before the “new” new MINI arrives stateside.

Deconstructing a design icon is tricky at best. At the risk of alienating the faithful, I’ll say this much: the new car is nearly twice as large as the original and violates designer Alec Issigonis’s basic tenet (80% of the vehicle is dedicated to passengers, the remaining 20% is for mechanicals and luggage). Other than that, I think the new MINI looks like a toddler’s high top sneaker. Oh, and I love the J Mays’ cribbed headlights and the fact that the rear is wider than the front. So, um, moving on.

Once inside, I felt an overwhelming urge to pop a Prozac. Call me a frumpy, but I could barely cope with the unrelenting designer-ness of the thing. The cabin is awash in chrome, plastic that looks like chrome, plastic that looks like plastic and twinkling glass. Our tester came with the Cockpit Chrono Pack, which is even more ADD-inducing than the default set-up. MINI’s speedometer moves to the top of the wheel (next to the tach) leaving the space for oil, fuel and temperature readouts (where's the boost gauge?). Although the MINI is billed as pint-sized luxury, I reckon the point of luxury (in any amount) is to relax. The Cooper’s innards almost induced seizures. Moving on.

The MINI Cooper S is loaded to the gills with go-faster bits: oxymoronic performance run-flat tires, 17” inch aluminum wheels, McPherson struts (front), a multi-link suspension (rear), equal-length drive shafts and a supercharger. The blower bangs out 168 horses for just 2678 pounds of, um, style. A ludicrously tall first gear (4.455) and the inherent FWD dragster drawbacks means it takes nearly seven seconds for the MINI to get from rest to 60mph. This stat wasn’t all that bad back in 2001. In 2006, the similarly priced Mazda Speed3 does the deed a full second faster. The MINI’s not slow, but it’s not a whole lot of fun to flog the transverse-mounted 1.6-liter four in a straight line.

I’ve never been a big fan of any BMW cog-swapping solution; in the MINI’s manual, the good people of Bavaria don’t disappoint my sense of disappointment. First of all, the MINI’s gearbox is a long-throw shifter. Such a device might have seemed appropriate back when the Sixties were swung, but today it just feels cheap and clumsy. The supercharger’s horsepower-sucking reality means that the second you lift your foot from the gas to shift, the engine loses 1500rpm. So even when you get the gear you think you wanted, it’s not the gear you actually need. Try as I might to whip this little whip, my plans were foiled first by the engine, and then by the gears.

I’ve been driving go-carts quite a bit lately, so I feel qualified to judge the MINI’s similarity to same. After caning the MINI through California hill and dale, I can proclaim here and now that the MINI Cooper S is indeed the world’s fattest go-cart. The initial turn-in is awesome: tight, accurate and eager. Right until the apex of a turn, the MINI lives up to the hype, steering and responding with the kind of rapid fire, laser-guided confidence that makes motorized dinner trays such a kick in the ass. From the turning point on, the go-cart analogy drives straight into the metaphorical tire wall.

Lest we forget, go-carts are rear wheel-driver machines. After you finish the turn, you plant your foot and power your way home. The MINI is front wheel-drive. Assuming you’re lucky enough to find 4000rpm and summon 162 foot-pounds of torque, flooring it out of a corner creates a nightmarish mix of understeer plowing and angry steering. I tried the same trick with the traction control off– and wondered if my insurance premiums were up to date. While cute, the MINI is not a track-day option.

Though not yet on our shores, BMW is embiggening the newish “MINI” and ditching the blower for a turbo. Let’s just hope the company’s chassismeisters have sorted the MINI’s on-the-limit handing. If so, the British go-cart will fully deserve the pistonhead plaudits it already receives.

MINI Cooper S (R56) Review

By Jay Shoemaker


News flash! The 2007 MINI looks like the 2006 MINI. As there wasn’t anything particularly wrong with the “old” model, BMW’s decision to leave things well enough alone shows welcome restraint. Well, almost. BMW’s added two extra inches to the new MINI– and we all know how meaningful two extra inches can be for guys (legroom!). But you’d be hard pressed to see any exterior effects– good or bad. So is it still all systems go for MINI’s V2 rocket, or does the new model (codenamed R56) prove that more is less?

Truth to tell, I was feeling a bit blah about my MINI road test. But the moment The Man handed me the key to a 2007 MINI Cooper S, I perked up. The ignition device is now a circular pad with a stubby base; my first inclination was to open a channel to Starfleet and ask Scotty to beam me up. Once inside, I was instructed to stash the pad and press the button. Keyless ignition in a car the size of a 7-Series escape pod? Who’d a thunk it?

And who knew the Bavarians had a sense of humor? More charitably, the MINI’s interior looks like it was created by a grove of unsupervised Apple Computer designers. (It’s only a matter of time before the MINI’s key includes an I-Pod.) The fuel gauge is now a circular ring of digital lights on the speedometer pod, with a “range to empty” display on the information section of the tachometer pod, in script familiar to BMW owners (if not MS Word users).

Drivers are confronted by a wide range of organic looking toggles and indentures, operating all manner of controls. Who cares how it all works? And who cares that not all the materials are above average? Most are, and when you encounter the odd flimsy piece, the clever design more than compensates. Even the casual visitor instantly appreciates that fact that the BMW’s British box is a no-holds-barred style statement, not an Audi.

To that end, buyers can personalize their MINI Cooper S in a trillion ways, right down to checkered flag side mirror caps ($130) and a “Let’s Motor” license plate holder ($35). What’s more, the MINI is the only car you can customize without completely destroying its resale value. My favorite new interior color is the Tuscan beige; I love the look but could live without the pretentious name.

The biggest change from old MINI to new: a Peugeot-sourced, BMW-fettled, 1.6-liter turbo four. The new engine’s a more powerful lump than the old supercharged Brazilian mill (172 horsepower and 177 pound feet of torque vs. 168/162). As a result, the zero to 60 time is slightly quicker (6.7 versus 7.2 seconds) with better fuel economy (29/36).

While the new MINI has a wider (i.e. more useful) power band and will now cruise at triple digits without threatening to rattle itself to pieces, it doesn’t feel quite as eager out of the blocks as the old car. There’s a nasty lag between depressing the go pedal and the onset of acceleration. It feels… dumbed down. Until, that is, you press the Sport button.

In many sports cars, even some of the more expensive models, activating the Sport button creates little more than a psychological effect. In the new MINI, it’s undeniably transformative. In an instant, both the MINI Cooper’s electric steering system and its fly-by-wire throttle tighten up. Like a dull pencil thrust into an electric sharpener, the MINI is suddenly ready to draw the finest of racing lines.

Compared to the corner carving capabilities of the previous version, the new MINI Cooper S in Sport mode feels about 20% more wonderfully, joyously flickable. It still stays flat and level through vicious corners. It still turns in with all the eagerness of a toddler’s mother. But the added layer of maturity and refinement in the drivetrain and the additional feel through the helm build significantly more confidence into the system.

Enough confidence, in fact, to imperil the sporting driver’s license– and embolden him or her to switch off the MINI Cooper S’ DSC stability control. And yet, even without considering the necessity of the optional limited slip differential, there’s something important missing from the re-mix: an aggressive exhaust note.

For reasons most probably related to Europe’s drive-by noise regulations, the MINI Cooper S’ aural burble, zizz and growl are gone. On one hand, the relative silence (and proper autobox option) make the MINI Cooper S a more refined and therefore viable daily driver. On the other, the muted motor removes much of the reason for driving the thing as it wants to be driven. It's a major miscalculation mandating post-purchase mechanical surgery.

Otherwise, the MINI Cooper S is good to go. Literally.

MINI Cooper Review

By Justin Berkowitz

George Clooney is box office catnip AND the critics’ darling. And no wonder: he looks great and he acts better than he looks. But what if you’re a movie producer who can’t afford Clooney’s vig? You get Thomas Haden Church. You know: the guy in Sideways, the movie about chit-chatting wine guzzlers. Sideway's producer knew Church wasn’t nearly as high profile as Clooney, but he was a lot less expensive. See where I’m going with this? If the MINI Cooper S is beyond your reach, should you lower your grasp? Big savings yes, but do you still get something of substance? Well, Church is an Oscar nominee. As for the Cooper…

It’s a relief to see an automobile that wasn’t designed in anger. Unlike Japanese and German sporting machines’ menacing headlights and blood-drawing creases, the Cooper remains a four-wheeled cheeky chappie. Although the MINI was maximized for ’07, only OCD brand fans can make the call. In case you meet a MINI enthusiast, just remember that the front indicators now sit like laconic “floaters” inside the MINI’s eyes, and the rear window line rises 0.7” higher up at the B-pillar than previously.

Thanks to the Mother of All Option Lists, the Cooper’s cabin is as plain or ornate as you desire, covered in funky cloth or leather or mother of pearl or space shuttle tiles. Most of the first gen’s retro touches (e.g. chromed toggle switches and unrelenting ovality) remain in situ. While these design-lead differentiators may continue to lure buyers who are comfortable deploying the term “post-modern irony” in polite conversation, the Cooper’s cabin is beginning to look increasingly whacked-out.

Equally disappointing, there’s no British-ness to the MINI Cooper. Cocked eyebrow whimsy has been replaced with weird for the sake of weird. The big central speedo of MINI Mk1 has morphed into a dinner plate-sized gauge that could easily double as the weigh-in scale for The Biggest Loser. Still, the ergonomics are bloodied but unbowed, and the fit and finish overall is impressive; part and parcel of Mini’s premium-puny philosophy.

So you stick the fob in the dash, press the “START/STOP” affectation, and fire up the engine. Hang on; can you “fire up” an engine with less displacement than a bottle of Diet Coke? In fact, it’s amazing to us buy-by-the-pound Americans that BMW would dare offer the 118 horse Cooper for sale on this side of the pond. That’s less poke underfoot than offered by a lowly a Kia Spectra. But unlike the original MINI's base (in the precise sense of the word) engine, which was made from rusted toaster ovens in a Brazilian Chrysler factory, the new 1.6 liter four-pot is a peach.

This PSA Peugeot-Citroen sourced mill doesn’t rev like one of Honda’s methamphetamine motors, but there’s plenty of space between zero revs and the 6500 rpm redline. The manual shifter is as slick as Clooney’s hair in O, Brother Where Art Thou? Whatever oomph there is is there for the taking. Metrosexuals and their mates will be delighted to discover that MINI has finally replaced the Continuously Vile Transmission with a proper six-speed autobox. Punch the pedal or row your boat; the best case is still naught to 60 in 8.5 seconds. Not too long ago you would have been impressed.

In day to day driving, the Cooper has plenty of zip. No, it’s not a Cooper S, but it’s still a car that could get you arrested… eventually. That’s because the suspension rewards any and all efforts to build the big Mo. Once you get a lick of speed and get into the game, the MINI’s handling becomes seriously addictive. Snap into a corner. More! Push into an S-curve. Is that really all you’ve got? Surge around a highway on-ramp at 73 mph. Down shift because damn it Scotty, we need more power! I dare you to drive the Cooper a few miles without cackling like a cocaine-crazed craps player.

Come to think of it, the Cooper is a smug little bastard of a car. I don’t have to brake for that turn. I can carve through traffic. I can fit into that parking space. I get 40 mpg highway. Unlike that psychotic dust-buster Civic, I've got completely customizable character. And I have to pay for home delivery because I can’t haul a damn thing. Err, never mind that last one.

No pistonhead worth his TTAC Tic Tacs would pass up a chance to buy a MINI Cooper S instead of a Cooper. Used S instead of new Cooper. Sorted. But let’s face it: there are plenty of people for whom $18k is already a stretch. And no other box fresh sub-$20k car has half the MINI Cooper’s flair and panache. Clooney’s cool, but sometimes you gotta go to Church.

MG ZT190 Review

By Robert Farago

This of course isn't MG's first badge engineering exercise. Although the Montego and Maestro only linger in our memories as beige nightmares, the MG badge did adorn the more tasty variants including the rather mental Tickford Turbo Maestro. Check them out here: MG Links

The UK ads for the MG-ZT promise 'fire breathing, full bodied, red blooded' pleasures. In a country where driving fast is as socially acceptable as puffing a Cuban cigar in a children's hospital, MG's message is welcome news for petrolheads. Still, let's not get carried away; it's only advertising. Or is it? Does the MG-ZT actually live up to the hype? Or is it an empty marketing exercise, shamelessly exploiting one of motor sport's most distinguished marques?

The entire concept is a bit worrying. The ZT is based on the Rover 75, BMW's ode to corporate hubris. No shade of eyeball assaulting paint can disguise the ZT's humble origins as a mid-market luxury barge built for the blue rinse and flat cap brigade. If ever a car was voted 'least likely to thrill anyone ever', the Rover 75 is it. And yet…

MG sent the demure 75 off to the School of Hard Looks for a first-class degree in Restrained Aggression. The graduate's mesh front grills and a lowered stance betray its high-speed aspirations without resorting to Japanese-style flared arches or razor-sharp wings. Subtle detailing and perfectly proportioned curves give the machine what MG [re]designer Peter Steven calls 'outside lane credibility'. Max Power Muppets have a better word for it: 'wicked'.

Inside, it's dull city. The ZT's interior is the automotive equivalent of those grey waterproof jackets favoured by England's elderly- totally practical and instantly forgettable. Someone in Rover's Marketing Department must have decided English retirees find oval shapes irresistibly soothing. Every single control is oval-shaped: air vents, gauges, horn, heater controls, door pulls, side mirrors, turning stalks, window buttons, the lot. There's plenty of space for luggage, but not enough rear legroom for a four-year-old.

The few attempts to inject a measure of sporting intent- the 'technical finish' fascia, the sports seats' lurid blue bolsters, the red on white dials - are less convincing than a coffee can exhaust on a Nova. Still, the doors clunk with Aryan solidity. There are no paint or glue drips, or nasty unfinished edges. Nothing broke, fell off, failed or rusted during my occupancy. The [thankfully] octagonal MG badge hasn't adorned anything this well built since, um, ever.

The ZT's racy gear knob may not overcome the interior's drabness, but it's connected to a five-speed Getrag gearbox that slots home like a rifle bolt. The slick shifter hooks you up to a 2.5 liter, 24-valve, transverse-mounted, quad cam, six-cylinder engine. Maximum power is 189bhp @ 6500rpms. As the torque figures indicate-181 ft. lbs. @ 4000rpms- the urge is evenly spread throughout the rev range.

For the non-technical, that's barely enough grunt for a lightweight roadster. Lest we forget, the ZT is a four-door saloon. Fifteen hundred kilos is an awful lot of weight for a small capacity six to schlep around. As a result, when it comes to speed, the ZT is only slightly more than merely adequate.

The 0 - 60 sprint takes 7.8 seconds. That's excellent compared to the Rover 75's 8.4 seconds, but laughable for a car that's supposed to brand you a hooligan. Standstill to the ton requires 22 seconds - a scant two seconds faster than a 2.5 litre Ford Mondeo. Hit the autobahn, stick the ZT in fifth, plant your foot and… you'll eventually achieve a hardly-worth-the-risk 141mph. Strangely enough, the gearing is biased towards cruising. When you leave the motorway and give it large, you'll be lucky to get 20mpg.

In its defense, the somewhat leisurely MG-ZT feels faster than the numbers suggest. The power delivery is smooth and satisfying, right up to the red line. Okay, the engine note is about as raucous as a night out with a Rover driver, but you're never left waiting for something to happen. Extracting maximum power is as simple as 'stamp, go, change; stamp, go, change'. The ZT's steering also helps maintain the momentum, providing just the right amount of feel and feedback.

MG's engineers have made the now familiar pilgrimage to the Nurburgring to fettle the ZT's suspension for ride quality and control. It was worth the trip; the Z-axle (rear) and McPherson struts (front) keeps things flat and happy through the twisties yet provide adequate comfort for the long haul. The car's ventilated discs are equally well sorted; you can scrub off speed like burnt egg off Teflon. The 18' wheels generate significant tyre roar, but it's a minor price to pay for such astounding levels of poise, grip and control.

The MG-ZT's systems all work harmoniously. A performance-minded driver will find it easy to extract maximum pleasure from the ZT's surprisingly tame power plant. In short, the MG-ZT is a well-built, mechanically sophisticated car, but not the rabid TVR-wannabe its advertising suggests. Not to put too fine a point on it, the MG-ZT is the perfect four-door for British enthusiasts with £20k to spend- as long as they forget the words 'Subaru Impreza Turbo'.

Mercury Grand Marquis Review

Mercury Grand Marquis (Outside)



Mercury Grand Marquis (Inside)



By Sajeev Mehta

Way forward. Bold Moves. Screw that. If America wants a bold, innovative car, they'll buy a Toyota. If they want something honest, inexpensive and comfortable, they'll buy a Ford. If they want an honest car with added spizzarkle, they'll spend a little more for a Mercury. Well, that's how it used to be, until Ford started building sub-par Japanese wanna-be's. Thankfully, the Blue Oval offers at least one rear-wheel drive automobile that stays true to the company's roots: the Mercury Grand Marquis.

Park the Grand Marquis next to its foreign counterparts and it's clear that the American luxobarge ain't livin' large no mo'. Snout-to-tail comparisons with a Camry require measurements smaller than a foot; millimeters differentiate their relative heights. Fortunately, the Marquis' ping-pong table hood and aircraft-carrier rear deck survive into the new millennium, while its broad shoulders continue to evoke memories of Officer Badass. Although the Marquis' police-a-like shape sends shivers down the spines of Boy Racers, the car's basic design is wildly inoffensive. This despite a new-for-'06 schnoz that blends-in about as well as a Speedo-wearing fat guy in Sports Illustrated's swimsuit issue.

The Grand Marquis' soft-touch keyless entry system ensures that its well-aged core clientele never lock themselves out, or loved ones in. (Take that, OnStar!) Even better, its portals swing open with all the reassuring monumentality of an '80's Mercedes S-Class. Once inside, the barge's beltline makes for excellent visibility and ensures easy parking maneuvers for one so broad of beam (the car, not its driver). Although the luscious nomenclature evokes memories of "Studio 54" decadence, the Grand Marquis' cabin sports a cabaret of dull and brittle coverings– in stark contrast to the fake tree trim glowing with radioactive glee on the car's massive dash.

The Grand Marquis' appointments can't hold a candle to a Camry's, but the big Merc is still leagues ahead of the Chrysler 300's blue light special. A pair of indulgent seats offers another clear advantage. Fold the deeply padded armrests and a spare bedroom awaits episodes of marital distress. Or perhaps a second honeymoon with the cavernous backseat? Six-passenger seating in a sedan is a forgotten delight, and beats the third row penalty box found in any similarly priced SUV. Crank up the tunes and feel the bass booming from the bowels of Mercury's Brick House trunk. The Commodores never sounded so mighty-mighty.

The Marquis keeps the muscle car flame alive with a redesigned analog gauge cluster, complete with its first-ever tachometer. Fire-up the cammer V8 and a distant rumble filters in from the ghosts of big-block Cyclones and Marauders. Although the Grand Marquis' mill only musters 239 horses, there's more than enough torque to take the "grind" out of the daily. Four gears are all you get (only one less than you really need). If you're young enough to read this site on a regular basis, or old enough to remember the Blues Brothers, you'll want Mercury's little known police package: cop engine (dual exhausts), cop tires (speed rated), cop shocks (monotube dampers) and cop suspension (revised front coils, Watts-link rear with heavy duty air springs and bigger sway bars). Evo's keep on frontin' but that guy in the Camry is toast.

Yank the column shifter to first and hammer the throttle. The Marquis' composed suspension, marginally-involving steering, torquey mill and RWD orientation make it an honest-to-God hoot in the corners. Pseudo-Super Troopers whose courage exceeds their skill benefit from the Marquis' five star crash test ratings. Credit the same brick shit house construction for the smoothest ride in town: hydroformed components on a body-on-frame chassis. Pot holes, speed bumps or subcompacts are a distant blip on the butt radar. Factor in a solid 21mpg (on regular gas) in mixed driving, and rough-riding, gas-guzzling SUVs hang their heads in shame.

Obviously the Grand Marquis is no match for a stick-shifted V6 Accord or Altima. But the Marquis ushers the family to grandma's house in far greater comfort. And, lest we forget, the Marquis' price lines up against baseline, four-cylinder versions of those wrong-wheel drive whips. According to the official Mercury website, the last of the Great V8 Interceptors has $5000 on the hood. And the deal grows sweeter down at the showroom. Hell, they're giving them away!

So why are Matlock fans the only people buying Mercury's Grand Marquis? Clearly, Ford turned its back on the old soldier; their press gang can't even be bothered to update the website with photos of the Marquis' analog instrumentation. No matter. It's time for pistonheads to reclaim old-school American cars for their own. The fact that Ford is killing this platform for some weak-kneed front driver only makes the Grand Marquis more desirable. And don't forget: it never hurts a speed demon to look like a cop.

Mercury Mariner Hybrid Review

By Jonny Lieberman

During a business trip to Canada, my manager and I watched a Swedish colleague use his cell phone to hold a three-way conference call with Tel Aviv and Hong Kong. The boss was infuriated; his US cell couldn’t even reach Toronto from Toronto. He called Sprint on a land line. "This is unacceptable,” he screamed. “It’s un-American to sell technology that’s seven years behind the Europeans!" The exact same thing’s been said about Detroit’s inability to counter fuel-sipping low-emission hybrids. Enter, finally, the Mercury Mariner Hybrid. Ah, but is the gas/electric Merc ready for prime time or is it just a Johnny-come-lately phoning it in?

Like its platform partners, the Ford Escape and Mazda Tribute, the Mariner is a dapper looking cute-ute. While I've never been a fan of the brand’s twenty-toothed family grill, the vertical blingery suits the Mariner’s massive front bumper like shoulder pads on a three-button suit. The SUV’s tight and tidy side-sculpting is equally well-wrought; the concave effect suggests a healthy, trim vehicle with a bit of sporting pretension. Our tester’s Charcoal Beige Clearcoat metallic paint kept the chrome jewelry from visual overload, while the 16" five-spoke aluminum wheels that (nearly) fill the arches show brand-faithful restraint. If ever a badge-engineered vehicle gained a little something in translation, the Mariner is it.

Inside the Mariner’s cabin, it’s an ersatz world after all. The soft-roader’s combination of fake leather, fake wood and fake aluminum is strangely effective, in a 50’s Las Vegas hotel room kinda way. Although it’s not a bad place to spend some time saving the planet, there are plenty of cavils: the HVAC knobs (lifted from the Focus) couldn’t go any further down market if they cruised Union Square in a miniskirt, the leather-wrapped steering wheel is Olsen Twin thin, and the cow-clad seats are less supportive than a deadbeat dad. Despite six-way power seats, a perfect seating position proved eternally elusive. And I dare you to find the seat-heater button.

The Mariner’s Nav system/head unit is the SUV’s greatest ergonomic failure. The credit card-sized screen can’t fit street names — just tiny white lines. Why didn’t Ford install the Freestyle’s big, beautiful LCD touchscreen? Half the fun (satisfaction?) of driving a hybrid comes from watching a real-time mpg readout while modulating the throttle and brakes to conserve as much fuel as possible. The Mariner's micro-screen doesn’t let you check your power source (Engine? Batteries? Hybrid-drive?) and mileage at the same time. You have to flip back and forth between the two screens– which is bad form for a company publicly committed to automotive safety.

Speaking of not dying, it’s best to pay careful attention to the Mariner’s brakes. Thanks to the regenerative braking gear, the anchor pedal weighs a ton. There is simply no way to smoothly roll on the stopping power; you have to stomp. The batteries and second engine benefiting from the recharge push the Mariner’s GVW up to nearly two tons. The extra weight degrades the tall, short wheel-base truck's ride and handling. At 80mph, driving the Mariners feels as if you’re riding a dented washboard.

There are three types of propulsion. Flutter the go-pedal and the torquey 94hp electric mill does the clean deed (although I could only get the Mariner into full-electric mode when tooling around parking lots). Mash the gas and the Hybrid switches to its 2.3L I-4 Atkins-style dead dino diet. Ninety-seven percent of the time you’re using both mills. After a few hundred miles of mixed driving the bottom line was… 25.8mpg. That’s nearly the same as the 21/24 EPA estimates for the four wheel-drive 2.3-liter Mariner. What's the point? Why spend $10k more to haul around an extra 400 lbs. netting you roughly 10% better fuel economy?

It gets worse. In stop and go traffic, the Mariner’s powerplant hibernates. With the engine off, calling the already weak air conditioning anemic is an insult to the iron-deficient. Mercury’s recommendation: when it’s “overly hot” switch the controls to MAX AC, which keeps the engine from shutting off. During summertime daylight hours, you get to choose between saving the planet and not sweating to death. The reverse is also true. The instructions issue the same warning when it’s “overly cold;” the Mariner’s electric motor is little more than a space heater. If you live in a flat, temperate climate and enjoy slow speed cruising, Mercury has a very handsome hybrid to sell you.

Taken as a whole, the Mariner Hybrid can’t compete with Toyota’s more complete hybrid Highlander. But at least Mercury has started the hybrid conversation with its mid-market buyers. Bold moves aren’t usually successful first time; they require follow through and persistence. As long as Mercury keeps hitting redial, they’ll eventually make the connection.

Mercury Montego Review

By Sajeev Mehta

My parents' first new car was a 1970 Montego coupe. They liked it so much they added a Montego sedan to the ranks– just in time to transport this nascent pistonhead home from the hospital. They no longer own a Montego. And soon, no one else will either. At least not a new one. Ford is about to rebadge the current Montego (a gussied-up Ford Five Hundred) a Sable; just as they’re about to rebadge the Five Hundred (the Taurus’ replacement) a Taurus. Which leaves everyone exactly where they started. I think. Let’s take a look.

The Five Hundred, sorry, Montego, began life as an Audi A6-a-like penned by the same designer who gave us the A6. Ugly it ain't. Boring it is: a third grade piano recital on wheels. Needless to say, the Quicksilver Boys grossly underestimated the need for brand specific product differentiation. Adding an aluminum-toned spizzarkleprow, LED eye catchers and Xenon lighting to a Ford Five Hundred is no substitute for unique sheetmetal. It’s like putting lipstick on a sloth.

Even if the Montego had the svelte sheetmetal to lure the public into a Mercury showroom, there's precious little inside the car’s cabin to keep them there. Swing open those tall and imposing portals and the geriatric bling theme continues apace. Sure, the dark wood-effect trim and richly textured leather hides exude a slight amount of Teutonic flavor. But someone forgot to sweat the details. The chrome ringed gauges look great– provided you can ignore the wall o' matte black buttons on the center stack.

You can see where Ford—sorry, Mercury thought they had a winner. Although fundamentally utilitarian, the Montego’s cabin is also fundamentally huge. According to the age-inappropriate image on the official website, the trunk can swallow enough gear for a small rock band. Stratocaster owners: you can fold down both the rear seat (trunk pass-through) and the front passenger seat and lay your naked, unsecured axe across two rows. How great is that?

Anyway, the Montego’s back seat is Old School Caddy wide and reasonably cushy; there’s plenty of room for three real adults back there. Unfortunately, the space offers all the charm of an airplane hangar. A full complement of airbags (including a side canopy system) ensure five star crashworthiness all ‘round, save for rollover (four stars), which may explain the class-exclusive rollover sensor.

At nearly 201 inches, the turnpike cruisin' Mercury creams most any bump, lump or stump. The spoke-intensive 18" wheels keep things on course, but the noise from the Pirellis at cruising speed throws a howler monkey into an otherwise competent isolation chamber.

Ease the Montego into a corner and it’s clear that this is not your typical land yacht. Thanks to its Volvo-fettled underpinnings, this large, nose-heavy, front wheel-drive sedan does a superb job at keeping understeer at bay without sacrificing ride quality. Predictably enough, the Montego’s steering is to road feel what a Stannah stair lift is to a leg workout. But it’s accurate enough to place the big Merc with precision. And if you don’t, four wheel discs will save your bacon (them’s the brakes).

Of course, this assumes you can amass enough forward speed to get into trouble. Ford's last-gen Duratec V6 welcomes you with a coarse hum at idle that stays all the way to the mill’s modest redline (5700rpm). The powerplant’s 203 horses struggle to tow the Montego’s massive 3670lb frame from rest to 60mph in eight seconds— or any other accelerative metric you can name.

Luckily, the powertrain has a singular saving grace. Well, six of them. The Montego's close-ratio six cog slushbox canes the motor rapidly enough for most, netting respectable fuel economy (21/29) in the process. Even a certified lead foot will find the combination of a flat torque curve and an always-willing gearbox adequate at part throttle, if wholly unacceptable at full-tilt.

In short, the Montego is a fine car for buyers seeking an unassuming full-size sedan that’s a tiny bit more exclusive and sparkly than a Ford Five Hundred, for around $825 more (base to base). Too bad this niche exists only in the world of product planners and flak-talking spin-doctors. Everyone else flocks to well-established import sedans or “real” American cars like the Grand Marquis. In fact, Mercury’s royal sweetheart sports a competitive sticker price and frequently triples the Montego’s monthly sales numbers. Oops.

The Volvo-Mercury is a bowl of corporate porridge that’s so "right" even Goldilocks smells a trap from a mile away. It’s no match for smaller cars in its class and lacks the swagger of its Panther chassis partner. Even with (another) retro name and modest upgrades, the Montego's successor faces an uphill battle in 2008. Ford’s money would have been better spent whipping the old Crown Victoria, Mercury Marquis and Lincoln LS into shape.

Mercury Milan Review

By William C Montgomery

Milan is the fashion capital of Italy. Step off the tourist trail and it’s a combination of industrial parks and urban sprawl with only slightly more charm than Trenton, New Jersey. Still, you have got to give Ford’s beleaguered near-luxury division credit for naming their hecho-en-Mexico Fusion derivative after the home of Alfa Romeo, rather than resorting to the alphanumerics afflicting Lincoln’s take on the same model. But the question remains: is Mercury’s glammed-up Fusion a credible fashionista or an industrial waste?

The Milan's grill is the most striking difference between Mercury’s mid-market sedan and the car upon which it's based. While Ford decorated their front wheel-driver’s front room with Venetian blinds, Mercury opted for verticals. Less obviously, the Milan’s lower front fascia is more pronounced, the bright work less blingy, the wheels statelier and the rear lights look less… like an aftermarket afterthought.

Subtle as they are, the changes work. The Milan projects greater maturity and wealth than its FoMoCo donormobile. And compared to the redesigned Toyota Camry, whose front-end looks like a saggy-nosed boxer after years of cartilage pulverizing abuse, the Milan is elegantly beautiful.

Color has a Jekyll and Hyde effect on Milan’s mien. The more vibrant hues– Redfire Red, Ebony Black and Dark Blue Pearl– establish a welcome contrast to the crystalline headlight cluster and chrome accents, projecting the requisite eau de upmarket. Conversely, the bland non-color tones– Charcoal Beige, Dune Pearl, Light Tundra, Satellite Silver, Silver Frost or Tungsten Silver— create a pale and pasty pallet of pernicious pabulum.

The Milan’s interior is proof positive that Ford knows how to design and assemble a comfortable, graceful and ergonomic interior. OK, the panel gaps around the dash top cubby can be seen from outer space. And most of the luxury stuff that should be basic– automatic climate control, heated seats, leather wrapped steering wheel with secondary controls, etc.– is optional (bumping the Milan's price towards the Lincoln Fusion homonym). But there are some genuinely nice touches.

For example, the Milan’s center-mounted analog clock is so-not-plastic and the wood is. And kudos to Ford Mercury for the clever center storage bin that combines an MP3 jack, Nintendo-friendly power point and change holder.

The Milan’s elegant monochromatic gauges could use a touch of red, as in REDLINE. While it’s not a concern when driving a Milan equipped with a five-speed automatic, pistonheads opting for stick shift (available on the four cylinder engine) must rely on their ears to avoid triggering the engine’s self-preservation software.

As with the Fusion, the Milan comes in a choice of a 2.3-liter in-line four or a 3.0-liter Duratec V6. The four-cylinder mill produces a class appropriate power (160hp @ 6250rpm) and economy (23/31mpg). It revs effortlessly and remains suitably hushed at cruising speed.

Unfortunately, the manual transmission’s 3.31:1 first gear ratio is a little too much for an engine whose 150ft.-lbs. peak torque doesn’t arrive until 4250rpm. (Translation: unless you rev the engine and dump the clutch north of 3000rpm, you ain't going nowhere fast.)

The V6 Milan delivers an altogether different driving experience. Mated to a six-speed slushbox, the silken six-cylinder engine puts Toyota’s, Nissan’s and Honda’s mills to shame, redefining smooth, effortless, frugal and dependable power for the entire mid-size market.

Just kidding.

Don’t get me wrong: the Duratec is a fine engine. But discriminating buyers will notice that the Milan’s 221hp six banger quickly runs out of puff, especially compared to Honda Accord (244hp) Toyota Camry (268hp) and Nissan Altima (270hp). The Milan's mill is also a pretty thrashy unit, with a decidedly downmarket sonic signature.

While the Milan’s mechanical anemia should eliminate torque steer, it doesn’t. Under hard acceleration, the sedan's front end rises like a powerboat as the forward donuts scrabble for purchase. For less adrenal (read: older) buyers, it’s no biggie. These comfort-oriented customers will be well satisfied with the Milan’s sophisticated short and long arm (SLA) front and multi-link rear suspenders. So equipped, the magic carpet Milan surmounts highway irregularities with near-Camry refinement.

On the fun-to-drive side of things, the Milan carves corners with Accordian poise and precision. I'm not saying the mid-sized Merc begs to be whipped. But when your inner hooligan tempts your soul, the Milan has enough spring in its step to keep everyone heading in the right direction.

At the end of my test drive, I asked my handler why anyone would buy a Mercury Milan over a Ford Fusion. “Why eat with a plastic fork when you can dine with a silver spoon?” I reckon that depends on what and where you’re eating. And even if we accept the analogy, the Milan is, at best, a silver plated plastic fork.

Anyway, the bottom line: for around $600 over the Fusion SE, you can buy a few optional trim choices and a slightly nicer looking ride. And that’s about it. I don't know about you, but that doesn’t sound very glamorous to me.