The Venus de Milo Sighed: Jaguar On Its Game

When Scotland’s Ian Callum joined Jaguar as Design Director in 1999, he brought with him a simple notion: “Jaguars should be perceived as cool cars, and cool cars attract interesting, edgy people.”  This was no modest boast as Callum knows from cool.  He had previously designed such notable automotive paragons as the Ford Escort Cosworth, the Volvo C70, and the Aston Martin DB7, DB9, and (be still my heart) the Vanquish.

He set about transforming Jaguar’s image from that of a maker of elegant-but-rather-stodgy English forms to one of cutting edge beauty and power, and designs such as the XK, the XF, the XJ, and other concepts flowed from design studio to manufacturing floor to roads around the world, shaking up the notion of "Jaguarness" along the way.  And then came the C-X16 concept, which aimed to recapture the glory of one of the all-time legendary sports cars and most iconic automotive designs:  The Jaguar XK-E.

The XK-E (aka Jaguar E-Type) almost needs no introduction.  Close your eyes and think “classic sports car” and chances are the XK-E was one of the two or three that popped into your head (along with a Porsche 911 and perhaps a Shelby Cobra or Ferrari GTO).  It’s unquestionably one of the purest forms to ever define how we think of a sports car, and makes a strong argument for loveliest car of all time.  During its fourteen-year manufacturing run from 1961-1975, the E-Type, both in Coupe and Roadster form, established itself as the car that for legions of aficionados would come to define the very essence of Jaguar.  A hard act to follow indeed.

From C-X16 concept to fully realized car, the F-Type R Coupe is a stunner.

Ian Callum aimed to build on this legendary reputation and develop a pure two-seat heir to the XK-E’s esteemed history.  And so when the C-X16 concept rolled out at the Frankfurt Auto Show in 2011 (as a hybrid electric vehicle), with its classic long hood and short rear deck at once echoing the E-Type’s grand touring proportions while also being unmistakably modern.  The raves and reviews were glowing.

And then the automotive world held its collective breath, because nothing this lovely and perfect ever translates into an actual production car.  But when, at the Los Angeles Auto Show in 2013, the F-Type Coupe was unveiled, it seemed Callum had actually pulled off the impossible:  The new car arrived largely unchanged from the concept.  (The Roadster version of the F-Type had been introduced earlier in that same year at the Goodwood Festival of Speed in England.)

The car I spent a week with was a 2016 F-Type R Coupe  AWD, the latest and lairiest version of the lineup.  Painted in vibrant Italian Racing Red with all exterior bits blacked out courtesy of the optional “Black Pack,” the car’s interior was black on black with lovely red contrasting stitching throughout.  It also came shod with 20” “Gyrodyne” alloy wheels, the look of which complimented the wheel arches beautifully.

(Thanks to my pals at Baron BMW for tossing me the keys for a week.)

Let’s get this out of the way up front:  The F-Type R Coupe is thing of stunning beauty, proportion, and presence.  An eternal design.  Ian Callum nailed it.  Nonpareil.  It’s gorgeous from all angles but especially so from the rear.  The design is timeless and emotional, a symphony of subtle angles and just-right proportions, and it’s certainly one of the loveliest car designs of the last decade.  To my eye, it’s better looking than an Aston Vantage, and plays like a slightly shrunken Vanquish (surely not a coincidence).  If this design doesn’t get Ian Callum knighted by the Queen, there is no justice.

The original XK-E is one of the most iconic of all sports car designs; it's easy to see why.

It makes me happy, strangely comfortable, to know that major corporations in this world bring all their industrial might to bear to create something so mind-numbingly lovely and elegant, because they can and because they want their own name stamped onto the side of it.  It’s almost irrelevant if it performs well as a runner…

…but run it does.  Oh my.

Dreamy Wife and I picked up the car on a Saturday afternoon and did what any two enthusiastic sports car fans would do when tossed the keys to $110,000 car with someone else’s name on the title:  We decided to take it to the grocery store.  So I turned the key and a volcano erupted.

The F-Type R’s exhaust sounds like a Saturn V rocket with attitude issues.  No one will ever be able to say they didn’t hear you coming, and in that sense the exhaust on this car qualifies as a safety device; as the motorcycle guys say, “loud pipes save lives.”  (If that’s true, then the F-Type R Coupe is a rolling cure for cancer.)  It’s the anti-Prius; if you can’t hear this thing coming or going, you need to get your cochlear implants adjusted.  It’s the most carefully engineered symphonic explosion on any street-legal car I’ve ever heard, and the little button on the center console that toggles the exhaust baffles is the most juvenile guilty pleasure.  Really, I just couldn’t help myself.

ualPackaging of the big V8 at a premium; the clam-shell hood a lovely homage.

And then you put the car into gear and things really get interesting.  The F-Type R Coupe is powered by a 5-liter supercharged V8 engine that makes 550-hp at 6500 rpm with 502 lb-ft of torque, driving all four wheels through its 8-speed ZF transmission.  While it weighs a whopping 3800 lbs, it’s packaged as tightly as Serena Williams, all sinew and muscle and rippling purpose: Form following function following form.  Buyer beware; it’s easy for this beast to get out of hand.  The R Coupe has battle axe acceleration; anything more than even a moment’s worth of half-throttle on the streets is irresponsible and dangerous.  The supercharger does its thing without hesitation, and the annoying whine that otherwise might be present is drowned out by the exhaust theatrics.  It’s a terrifying hoot that demands you pay the hell attention.  You can lose this car in a moment, even with electronic nannies keeping watch.  If you’re the type to stab at an accelerator in a “hey, lookie what I can do!” moment of immaturity and inattention, I implore you to buy the smaller engined F-Type.  Those models go plenty fast.  Your loved ones will thank me.

After we dropped off the groceries at home (pro tip: If you take an F-Type to the store choose plastic over paper, because paper bags won’t fit standing up.), we took the car out to some lovely (and largely empty) country roads, and where I know of a few stretches where the brave can open up such a car.  At full throttle, the acceleration is almost gravity-defying, the exhaust at full chat sounding like a naval fusillade.  As Dreamy Wife put it: “Sweetie, you said you wouldn’t scare me.  You’re scaring me.”  The car is stable and planted at speed, though the spoiler that extends at 70mph (and rather charmingly proceeds to black half the already sparse rear view) seems overmatched, especially under heavy braking where the rear of the car squirms in an altogether confidence-uninspiring way.

The R Coupe's handling is largely neutral, a testament to the AWD system always on guard to keep the tail-happy bias of this much power in check.  (And while I haven't had a chance to drive the car's RWD immediate predecessor, I have no doubt about the reports that tail-wagging joy could quickly turn into a massive insurance claim with just the slightest moment of inattention.)  Steering is nicely weighted, especially at speed, though to my taste it's a bit muted and indistinct.  It's exacerbated at slow speeds by the steering rack's need to move the massive rubber on which the car is perched; trying to get all this power down requires massive shoes (255/35s in front, snowplow-sized 295/30s in back).  But paired with an electronically adjustable suspension (just go ahead and leave it on Dynamic Mode), the overall feel is communicative and reassuring.

The cockpit of the R Coupe is a lovely place to spend time, full of theatre (the motorized, disappearing dash vents for example) and comfort (the buckets are perfectly padded and shapely).  The materials, though, are a bit of an odd mix.  While the leather and stitching befit a Range Rover, some value-accounting shows through in other areas.  To wit: The turn-signal blinkers sound like they were borrowed from a mid-1980’s Chrysler Lebaron; the button for the otherwise lovely leather-covered glove box looks like a bare quartz watch battery; and the hinged plastic cover for the cup holders would be down-grade on an entry-level Kia.  These nits certainly don’t ruin the experience but they seem strangely out of place in a car of this stature and price-point.

The interior electronics are where the car really shows its parts-bin warts.  The touch-screen infotainment system shows finger smudges that would make an ID thief giddy, and the system responds to inputs with the expediency of a bored civil servant.  No shiny, intuitive, millisecond-response times here.  Push a button, wait a few beats, and hope for the best.  Not good.  Even the parking sensors get into the game.  They behave like the slow kid in class who is last to notice something obvious, then persists in shouting to everyone who will listen long after the moment in question is past.  Maybe I’m just too accustomed to the modern wonder of the contemporary on-board systems from the German big three but if this is the best Jaguar/Land Rover can do, the English need to up their game.

Quibbling about such trifles in a car with such presence, power, and beauty seems almost rude.  The F-Type is the rare car that I would covet and adore if it only sat in my garage and never ran.  One night I woke up for a sip of water, but found myself walking downstairs, turning on the garage lights, and staring at the Jag.  At 2:00am.  Just stared at it, the car sitting there glinting in the overhead lights, an inanimate object infused by shape and form and substance with something akin to animal presence.  I don’t often imagine cars sleeping, but the contrast of the drama and symphony of the sleek Jag in movement with the car sitting quietly under fluorescent lights in my garage made it easy to imagine an immensely tight and complicated system that sometimes just needed a bit of rest.

This F-Type R Coupe is surely one of the most beautiful cars on the market today.  And for that, we all owe Jaguar (and Ian Callum) thanks.

Ban Ki-moon's Chariot: One Week with a BMW 7-Series

Most days, your humble car blogger pays his mortgage by working in the information technology field, putting out fires, listening to pitches, and saying no to people with a smile on his face.  But recently I was afforded a significant promotion: To CEO of a boutique drug company, or perhaps kingpin of an international weapons consortium, or even a mysterious consultant to the mineral extraction logistics industry.  Or so it seemed anyway after I was tossed the keys to a BMW 750i xDrive for a week.

(Thanks to my pals at Baron BMW in Merriam, Kansas, for the extended test drive.)

The big Bimmer approaches a valet stand much the way a Wally 58 arrives in some sundrenched port-of-call, the car's perceived bow wave announcing its arrival with stately presence and subtle authority:  This is not a car to be trifled with.  People who drive these things daily do not fly coach.  But whereas the Wally will see you sending a wire transfer for upwards of $3MM, the BMW can be yours at something just slightly north of one-hundred grand.

This particular example, finished in Dark Graphite Metallic paint of the deepest luster and outfitted with a Black Nappa Leather interior with burnished Gray Poplar wood trim, arrives as serenely as a Great White Shark; it’s large, in charge, vaguely sinister, yet always attracting respectful glances from onlookers.  It’s subtle and substantial, yet incongruously always ready to party.

To be sure, the 750i is a large car.  While it’s length and girth are admirably masked on the road, its size is readily apparent when you go to moor, er, park.  BMW has anticipated this and outfits the 750i with all manner of sensors, so that you’re always aware both visually and audibly where the corners of the car are.  If you run into something in this thing, it’s your own damn fault.  And of course, if the prospect of docking, er, parking is too intimidating you can always just pull up to a space and have the vehicle self-park.  Yes, it will self-park.  (And yes, I will at some point dispense with the nautical metaphors.)  If you let it self-park enough times, you will actually evolve out of your thumbs, because you are a lazy toad without the baseline skills to even consider piloting such a vehicle.  No, I’m not a fan of letting cars self-park.

The 750i xDrive is all about stately presence.

Its length is put to good use when you open the rear doors.  The rear passenger cabin on the big 7-series is almost impossibly large.  A friend of mine, a 6’6” ex-college quarterback and generally strapping Midwestern lad, sat in the back, extended his legs, and let out a whoop of delight; there was still a good 6” of room between his knees and the seat back ahead.  A much shorter friend sat down and was almost able to extend her legs fully.  This thing has an interior vista.

The "light curtain" welcomes you back.

And oh is it sumptuous.  Materials of the highest quality, leather from cattle who likely never saw a barbed wire fence, the loveliest of wood veneers, stitching that’s almost showing off. As Vincent Vega would put it, "It’s the little differences."  Car manufacturers have gotten great at making plastic look like metal; trompe l'oeil on an industrial scale. On the 7-series, what looks and feels like metal is metal. Lush, cold, smooth metal. Nice.  Or the way the seat belts are supple and pliable when you strap them on but then cinch up when the car is going more than 5mph.  Or the “light curtain” that illuminates the occupants path when the car is unlocked with the fob; a bit of useless theatricality that should be expected in such a vehicle but one that still never fails to delight.  “Look, to the Bat Cave!”  At this price point, details matter.

And then there’s the much ballyhooed “Gesture Control,” the hand-free control interface that will likely soon be everywhere in the BMW line.  There is something Fantasia-like about the gesture control, with the driver serving as Micky, aka the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, a dramatic gesture causing all manner of Sturm und Drang to erupt (or at least the radio volume to increase or an incoming call to be answered).  While I fear from the outside it may look as if the well-healed driver suffers from Tourette’s Syndrome, it’s a pretty cool parlor trick on the inside.  Though really, are we now actually designing advanced technology to encourage drivers to take their hands off the wheel?  (I believe this is what’s known as a “gateway drug” to the inevitable era of self-driving cars.  See my comments above about the “self-park” feature if you don’t believe this insidious encroachment is underway.)

The 750i xDrive is powered by an 8-liter diesel co-engineered by BMW and Caterpillar which was first used to transport SpaceX rocket boosters to their uphill launching pad.  Okay…it just feels that way.  The big Bimmer is actually propelled by a 4.4-liter twin-turbo V8, a brute of a motor that makes 445-horsepower and a mind-bending 480-ft/lbs of torque.  Coupled to a ZF 8-speed transmission lubricated with silkworms and the tears of the vanquished, the luxurobarge makes it off the line to 60mph in a BMW-reported 4.3 seconds (though Car and Driver Magazine recorded the run in 3.9 seconds).  It’s, well, fast.  Dumb fast.  Supercar fast.  And does so without spilling a morsel.  The power is linear to the point of fooling the driver into imagining a “d” (for Diesel) on the hind-end.  It’s a tank, pulling like a brute but a brute with the most refined manners.  Zany, stupid fun.  It doesn’t feel nearly as fast as the X6M I gloriously flogged recently, but it actually is in terms of the speed trap.  It’s how it makes its power that impresses, like an African despot who waves his hand to make it so; the expectation of results is assumed.

Driving modes on the big sedan are not called anything as mundane as “modes” but rather are referenced as ”Driving Experience Control.”  There’s something for everyone. Sport & Sport Individual (where the driver can customize damping, steering, engine, and transmission settings) are accompanied by the dash glowing a pulsating red, little devils practically perching on the driver’s shoulder. Comfort (Standard and Comfort Plus, when just the regular amount of comfort won’t do) set all dampers to their most cosseting.  EcoPro detunes the engine, mandates the annoying Start/Stop function, and generally drapes the driving experience with a double-dose of Benadryl (I’m convinced the setting only exists to keep the regulators happy; “Look how efficient our car has become!”).  My personal favorite of the settings is Adaptive, where the brains of the car tune performance to suit the moment-by-moment mood of the driver.  It’s responsive and intuitive, and after playing a bit with the other settings, I put the car in Adaptive and let it do its thing.  I imagine most owners will as well.

If you run into something at slow speed, don't say the 7-series didn't try and warn you.

The car is a wonder to drive, as easy to toss around as it is to go unreasonably fast, with only a whisper of piped-in artificial engine noise to provide any sort of exterior context. One afternoon, Dreamy Wife and her colleague “got all ‘Thelma and Louise’” (their words) and took it out for a spin.  “We felt like we should be dropping some diplomat off at the UN or something.” Dreamy reported a highway blast that began at 50 and ended somewhere above triple-digits before a quick glance as the heads-up display floating magically in the windshield caused her to consider the consequences.  The car was so effortlessly smooth it became “dangerously fast” she reported. 

BMW 7-series cars have always had their design quirks.  The previous generation was one of the most controversial in the history of the marque, with the vigorous “flame surfacing” design language favored by Chief Designer Chris Bangle that gave the car world the term “Bangle Butt.”  Current Chief Designer Adrian van Hooydonk tends to the more elegant, to my eye, though certain design decisions leave room for debate.  For example, the long, thin chrome hockey stick on the 7-series, with the blade mounted just behind the front wheel arch and the shaft forming the visual bottom of the door sill, seems to me only to accentuate the length of the car, though I imagine the notion was a more elegant transition to the sill than a simple cut line.  Several people remarked to me they thought the element was both classy and distinctive; to my eye it’s an unnecessary affectation.  But still.  It’s an elegant, stately car; adult and refined, not at all whimsical.   I still think the Audi A8 leads this class of car in terms of elegant, substantial design, but the big Bimmer trumps the Mercedes S-class in interesting style.  (Come on, Maserati, update the Quattroporte just a bit, will you?) I’ll take my 7-series in the form of the 750i-based Alpina B7 over the much more gauche Mercedes-AMG S63.   Your private golf club or gated community beckons.

At the end of the day, the 750i xDrive can make a legitimate argument for “Best Car in the World,” the apogee of automotive engineering, a bellwether vehicle that leads by design and technology and example.  It’s certainly an amazing achievement.  Is it a better all-around vehicle than a Range Rover?  I don’t know (though the interior sure is), but it certainly leads in outright gee-whiz technology that we’ll see percolating down throughout the BMW and other manufacturers’ ranges for the next several years.  (And I haven’t even mentioned the car’s bonded carbon fiber body panels and other structural elements, which provide extreme strength with incredible lightness.  Look for those construction techniques and materials to be mainstreamed soon.)  As a marvel that shamelessly cossets while defying physics, and even providing on-demand silly fun, the big Bimmer is a thing of beauty and wonder.  And if it’s ultimately a bit digital for my tastes, that says way more about market segmentation (and my place in it) than what this car is about.

The 750i xDrive is an amazing achievement, full stop.  Now, where did they hide all the little people?