Sometimes the creative department within an advertising agency tries too hard to force-fit an ‘idea’ into a marketing brief. Above is example of such folly. Worse still is their ‘effort’ to conceal the marque of this poor car.

Apologies for the picture quality, this pathetic attempt was extracted from a newspaper. Over to you.

Further Reading

The Deliberately Anonymous Car Part 1

The Deliberately Anonymous Car Part 2

The Deliberately Anonymous Car Part 3

I must say my Volvofanböi status has dipped somewhat in recent years. Having owned a 145 big bumper wagon bought from my father, I’ve felt a kinship with the marque since the age of five. But with CC delivering so many automotive wonders daily, I’ve let attention to my first automotive girlfriend’s family slip. Nevertheless, I still seem to have an intuitive grasp of the Swedish manufacturer’s output because when this example presented itself I knew immediately there was something special about it. That long rear door was the kicker.

Normally when I surround a car stuck in traffic to capture it with as many angles as possible, the owner seems quite pleased to get the attention. This time, no. Nary a smile nor even a glance. So what, I’m here on a mission and I’ll do what I damnwell please given this thing is sitting in the public domain. That badge on the right under the taillight was the gateway to the doors of perception via the interweb expressway.

Volvo S90 Executive by Nilsson.

Back in 1966, a guy called Fred Neil wrote a song called Everybody’s Talkin’. In 1968 another guy called Harry Nilsson covered it and released it as a single. It reached 113 on the US charts then disappeared. In other words, nobody was really listenin’. Or talkin’ about it.

Then another guy called Derek Taylor convinced yet another guy called John Schlesinger to include it on the soundtrack for a film he was directing, and then all of a sudden everybody was talkin’ about this song. US No. 6.

All of which makes for a clunky segue to our feature car.

It seems nobody is really talking about this model online. In fact CC (yet again) features a discussion within the comment thread for an article on another Volvo that seems to have more information about these cars than almost anywhere else. So let’s see what I can put together.

The Swedish coachbuilding firm of Yngve Nilsson Karosserifabrik was founded in 1945 by Yngve and his wife Linnea. Here we can see their work on a Volvo PV444 with some seriously curtailed front doors.

The 1960s saw their first commissions directly from Volvo.

Their single most delicious creation was the 165 wagon built in 1972. This bespoke body was loaded to the nines for Sture Levin, who was an employee of Volvo. Below is the car with second owner Ove Janerby. This rarity was tracked down, bought, refurbished and celebrated by automotive journalist Fredrik Nyblad.

Volvo’s official wagon output for their six cylinder one-series models was a production of one built for the Australian market (*cough* Volvo Australia Managing Director). Either that one or this would be very welcome in my life. Very welcome.

In the 1980s, Nilsson won the contract to supply the Deutsche Demokratische Republik (East Germany) with Volvo 260-series limousines and landaulets. 123 were built, not sure how many of which but Head of State Erich Honecker was known to be a backseat occupant of the top-down model.

The commercial variants continued to pour out of the Laholm factory, and the 1980s also saw Nilsson manufacturing expand into Asia. Limousines were built in Thailand and Malaysia, and hearses in Indonesia. Perhaps due to the large order from the DDR also being produced in Laholm, these Asian bodies were destined for the English market. Standing in front is, I believe, the president of the Indonesian chapter of the Bruce Springsteen 1975 fanclub.

In 1982, Volvo stunned the world with a new model. The 740 and 760 series were housed in a completely new body following the 16 year reign of the previous 1- and 2-series shells. With those sharpened contours the Swedish brick was made more brick-like.

Nilsson offered a limousine on this new body, as well as fantastic looking ambulances.

With the launch of the 760 GLE Executive, they also added directly to the official Volvo showroom offerings. And here the information trail gets a bit cold.

The wheel base was extended 15 cm within the rear passeenger space. The c-pillar was completely reworked, losing that awkward pinch crease at its base on the standard model. The trailing edge of the pillar was made more upright and the quarterlight deleted in the name of (or for the impression of) greater privacy.

Can’t tell you much about differences in trim.

In 1990 the 7-series gave way to the 9-series which from a styling perspective was essentially a softening of the form and a losing of the pinch crease.

The Executive was continued into the 960s, and here the information trail gets a little warmer. Richard Herriott, occasional CC presence and consistent Driven to Write scribe, found this example in a listing and wrote it up here.

The 960 limousine by Nilsson was brochured by the factory. Maybe the 760 version was as well, but I don’t know for sure.

In 1994, the 960 got a body update which made it even more softer-looking.

And the 960 Executive received the same body changes.

But wait, there’s something different about the c-pillar.

Nilsson changed the c-pillar treatment on the second series of the 960. The fully-flush blanked pillar was replaced by something featuring a quarterlight – though smaller than the standard sedan’s and with a separate panel inserted to fill the gap. It seems like the Executive was moving down in the world as Nilsson tried to save costs on all that c-pillar-smoothing labour. Or were customers complaining about the lack of greenhouse in the rear?

But wait, the one on the right has a ‘Royal’ badge.

The Royal would appear to be a version of the LWB body destined for the Asian market.

You’ll notice too that this is an ‘S90’ Royal. From 1996, certain markets dropped the 960 designation and replaced it with a model number anticipating the next range.

Here is a promotional video for the S90 Royal in all its period-correct finery including fridge behind the rear seat, in-car telephonic device and a hijack-avoidance manoeuvre (at 0:50 secs).

And here is a promotional video for the S90 Executive, exactly the same except for different shots of the badge and the voiceover callout at the end.

So the S90 Royal and the S90 Executive would appear to be the same car for different markets.

Sort of.

Here are brochure pages for the S90 Royal Hermès, which looks like it featured a unique upholstery offering.

Here are more brochure pages for the Royal. The specification page tells us there were three variations, Royal 5 seater, Royal 4 seater and Royal Hermès. Unfortunately I can’t read the rest of the brochure, although there seems to be some variation between them in a couple of the dimensional line items.

I’m not sure if the S90 Executive got a Hermès option as well, nor do I know whether the Royal was part of the 960 series one or 760 fleets. Nor numbers produced. Nor much else about these cars.

What I do know is that I spotted this from about a hundred metres away and ran to capture it. Jogged actually; it was more than apparent the traffic was going nowhere. In any case, it’s gratifying the residual Volvofanböiness within is of a sufficient strength to sniff out a rarity like this from afar.

Welcome to another edition of my lowly-acclaimed Missed It By That Much series. Today, we get to see almost all of the bodies produced by Ford Australia for their XA Falcon GT cars.

All y’all probably think of Max Rockatansky when you see the Hardtop’s shape. For most of us down here, they have a broader imprint on our collective memories. Alongside the Charger and Monaro (maybe not the Force 7 – hehehe), the Falcon tudor from the early 1970s set a high benchmark for attractive styling. Very rare to see any of these now, but the 1972-73 XA would be the rarest (except the Force 7 – hehehe).

The sedans are rare too. Mostly because the XA was only produced for 18 months, whereas the (almost as attractive) XB lasted three years and the last of the line XC another three years. These examples would both appear to be in Red Pepper, almost the default colour for a GT from the period. I saw a yellow GT sedan the other day, but didn’t pull out the camera. That was nice too.

Haha! Tricked you! Got this one in full.

This sedan has redlines in the tyres, a great touch and worth the effort in my opinion. Not as enthralled with the numberplate frame though. Apart from the NACA-ducted hood, you can tell a GT from the grille ahead of the front wheels. Could be a replica but I’m not buying so who cares.

Now I know many of you will decry yet another immaculate performance variant on CC, and to a large degree I agree. But the XA is so good looking from every angle, I’ll take all the gloss as well. Just look at that face.

If I appear biased, it’s because I had an XA sedan; a bog-standard prestige Fairmont. Mine didn’t have the vinyl roof, but it did have the flowerpetal wheel covers (as I used to call them). White with a 250 six, it was completely original when I bought it in 1994 including an intact interior. It wasn’t a trailer queen though, back then these were still beater-grade cars and the one I found for not much money was just a well-cared-for example.

This was my first big car (yes, I know, but when you grow up in a family of Fiats and Volvos, this is big), and I remember sitting on the curb after driving home from work and just spending a few minutes admiring the shape.

Nice rear too. Those taillights were XA only and make for the perfect ending to this piece.

Further Reading

More Missed It By That Much

The Curbside Classic Effect was in full effect last week. Just as I was putting the finishing touches to the XA coupe piece, another Ford coupe landed in my phone. I play a regular game of cellphone spotto pingpong convened by fellow CContributor jim, who passed these on from Rolla Matt. It’s a Ford Landau – rare enough, but my first with this front clip.

I wrote this gold example up a few years ago. It belongs to the mother of Gillian Macpherson, and Gillian chimed in to tell us a bit about the car. Her father bought this for her mother new in 1975, and she continues to drive it today. It seems from some of the other comments, as well as conversations I’ve had within the area, that she’s still driving it and is a bit of a legend amongst us admirers. Gillian tells us she’s ‘waaay more than 70’, but beyond that a gentleman never asks.

Since then, I’ve sighted a few more of the 1385 built at the time; the above example a little while back.

This is the only time I’ve been able to catch one in profile, and that flank looks even more voluminous than the already voluminous donor Hardtop body, thanks to the smaller rear side window. This one’s sitting on 12-slotters, a standard upgrade for models of this ilk and the fatties at the rear are a tuff touch.

John H left this white one in the comments of the last story, not in great condition but with the desirability and values for the tudors peaking at the moment, probably already refreshed.

This one approached me from far enough that I could pull out the phone for posterity. It too seems to be wearing 12 slotters, although with the accompanying hubcaps that one occasionally sees. Also visible, but barely, is an XB GT Hardtop grille just ahead of the rear wheels. Not OEM for the Landau.

Its lovely green on green is more apparent with the sun behind us.

Ok, now for a brief summation of the Landau history to explain today’s feature car. The Landau was based on the super-premium P5 LTD, which replaced the US-sourced Galaxie LTD over here in 1973.

The XB Hardtop lent its body to the Landau using a P5 LTD front clip. The rear side windows were re-shaped and the resulting graft work hidden under a vinyl roof.

In 1976, the P6 LTD got an overhaul. Though based on the P5, every panel but roof and doors were replaced with much squarer contours.

Ford Australia prepared a Landau proposal based on the P6 back in 1973. This seems to have included the front clip of the P6, although the trim along the lower flanks never made it onto the LTD. At the rear, the light units from the P6 were to replace the strip unit from the P5. Ultimately they decided to can the super-premium two door altogether.

So are we looking at a long lost prototype? Front says yep.

Rear says nope. I prefer this treatment anyway.

It’s an each-to-their-own proposition. I wouldn’t be doing this to a Landau, but then again I’d be in an XA Superbird if I was going to go the Ford Hardtop route. The owner of this hood-snorting beast has something unique, and to their own personal tastes. And fantastic to see on the road. Thanks to Rolla Matt for this spotto.

Further Reading

My original Landau piece

Brazilian Ford Landau by PN

Very few individuals in automotive history have been the primary hand in shaping the entire passenger car range for a major manufacturer. Paul Bracq managed to accomplish this, not once but twice.

In this two-part series we take a look at his career, focusing on a number of his more famous shapes as well as shedding light on some of his lesser-known work.

Jacques Saoutchik needed help.

His famed coachbuilding firm had fallen on hard times since its pre-war heights. He himself was ailing and had transfered leadership of the business to his son. Compounding the misfortune was their work for the Spanish firm of Pegaso.

Pegaso had recently engaged Wilfred Ricart to produce a V8 engine. This motor would prove to be a genuine competitor to the Ferrari, and with it a range of sportcars were put to market. Some rather bland in-house bodies were produced, and Saoutchik was to provide the more premium creations. Unfortunately, these – such as the leopardine creature above – were rendered in an extravagant style reflective of Saoutchik’s gloried past. Ricart was dissatisfied with these bodies and had engaged Touring Superleggera of Milan.

Unable to match Touring’s fresher shapes himself, Saoutchik sought out Philippe Charbonneaux.

Since 1946, Charbonneaux had been making a name for himself designing for Delahaye and Rosengart, and had even spent six months at General Motors in Detroit. In the early 1950s, he started his own styling bureau and was soon flush with commissions for the distinctive advertising trucks used for the Tour de France, among other things.

Charbonneaux turned to his new assistant, Paul Bracq.

Born in Bordeaux, Bracq had learned the craft of wood sculpture at the École Boulle in Paris. But cars were his real passion. While he attended the Boulle from 1950-52, he also took a correspondence course with the Chambre Syndicale de la Carrosserie – the coachbuilders guild – studying technical draftsmanship.

In 1953, he had his work published in L’Automobile magazine. This study based on the Lancia Aurelia displayed a marked maturity in Bracq’s capabilities, working to the Italian style and resulting in a shape that could well have emanated from one of the carrozzerie. His work caught the eye of Charbonneaux, resulting in an offer to join his fledgling studio.

For the Saoutchik job, Bracq provided a superb debut. He produced a shape both rakish and fully-volumed. Two models of similar body were hewn and finished in differing colour schemes. The Pegaso face was retained, and the uninterrupted flanks flowed comfortably into forward-canted razor fins at the rear. The turret was tight, yet sat atop the body most naturally.

As those bejewelled headlights demonstrate, these 1/10th scale models were no internal study. They themselves were displayed by Saoutchik at the 1953 Paris Salon on their own rotating plinth. But alas they went no further than that.

Bracq would place a similar fixed head on Charbonneaux’s Salmson roadster concept. But nothing could overcome that grotesque face and this proposal too never proceeded.

Another task from this invloved assisting Charbonneaux on a spectacular creation – the high-speed articulated broadcast truck commissioned by Pathé Marconi. When Charbonneaux bought this truck back years later, Bracq would assist him again in its restoration.

And there Paul Bracq might have stayed had it not been for the National Service.

In 1954, Bracq was drafted into the French Air Force and stationed at Lahr in Germany, where – thanks to his recent employ – he was assigned to motoring duties. His specific task was to attend to his general’s Mercedes-Benz staff cars, and on one occasion had to drive to Daimler-Benz when one of the cars needed work. Bracq took the opportunity to enquire at the marketing department in pursuit of some grand prix posters, and a conversation with executive Prince von Urach led to a meeting with head of body and engineering Karl Wilfert.

Among the pieces Bracq showed Wilfert were these studies on the Mercedes-Benz sports and racing cars. That nose on the 300 models in the top row would prove remarkably prescient, finding its way onto the 2003 Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren and its 2004 SLK sibling. Wilfert was suitably impressed.

The crises at the Suez and in Algeria extended the Bracq’s service by another year, but Wilfert was prepared to wait. Bracq took advantage of this delay to improve his fluency with the German language.

Finally, on the 1st of March 1957, Paul Bracq commenced as a stylist for Daimler-Benz on a monthly salary of 500 DM.

Daimler-Benz had been relying on individuals such as Friedrich Geiger, Walter Hacker and Herman Ahrens for their recent road car designs, but this was the pre-war generation who were now moving up the ranks. Wilfert was determined to create a styling department that could meet the rapidly evolving modern aesthetic, and Bracq was effectively its first new employee. Initially installed under Hacker, by 1959 Bracq was reporting to the quiet and considered Geiger in the newly-formed Advanced Styling studio.

Bracq’s contract also called for him to produce images for the company’s marketing collateral. Despite his facility in sculpting, he was also highly skilled in the art of rendering. Here he has produced artwork depicting the current range for an advertising campaign celebrating their 75th anniversary in 1961.

His most significant contribution to Daimler-Benz was in shaping their passenger cars of the 1960s. As with the output of his then-contemporary, John Blatchley at Rolls-Royce, the personality of the hand that created these shapes was almost imperceptible. Bracq took the established identity and extrapolated it effortlessly into the various ranges. Each model was marked by a cleanness of line and volume, sustaining the dignitas of the marque with perhaps a little more chic than its British rival.

In truth, all of these sedans and coupes owed an immeasurable debt to the heckflosse first seen in 1959. Shaped by Friedrich Geiger, these cars introduced Daimler-Benz to the principles of the clean, straight-through body sides and airy, squared-off greenhouse. Its most distinctive contribution had been in that face; an amalagm of the upright saloon grille with the ‘Lichteinheit’ ovoid composite headlights from the 300 SL roadster.

Bracq’s most substantive input was in plucking the heckflosse’s tail.

His first Mercedes-Benz shapes were the W111/112 coupe and cabriolet launched in 1961. The c-pillar from the heckflosse was retained, but the trailing-edge bend redrawn at a less acute angle. More importantly, the slightly raised wing line and reverse-cant fins were gone, replaced with a gently sloping line and forward-cant end.

These shapes were a sensation, and would define the Mercedes-Benz rear for the 1960s as much as the hecklosse would define the front.

The fins had marked a period at Daimler-Benz where the US automotive shape was playing a significant influence, and early renderings for the W100 600-series reflect this in no uncertain terms. This model was to replace the stately Adenauer sedans and limousines at the top of the Daimler-Benz saloon hierachy, and planned to be as large as the larger US examples, with a 6.3 V8 engine to match.

The European manufacturers were looking zealously to the ever-expanding market across the Atlantic and Bracq was clearly tasked with appealing to that idiom as it stood in the late 1950s.

Fortunately, sanity prevailed and the shape that would emerge in 1963 was better befitting a head-of-state. It featured a more adroit translation of the heckflosse language and coupe rear, and introduced a much cleaner c-pillar into the mix.

The shape was a bit arch in its telling, and Bracq was not pleased with the decision to reduce the overhang at the front. But the car became an icon; the mark of wealth and prestige for rockstars and despots alike, as well as for its more discrete clientele.

For the W108/109 saloons of 1965 everything came together flawlessly. In retrospect Bracq’s best-looking sedan seems like a fait accompli. And so it was, but one shaped by expert hands and guided by ageless wisdom.

It was not just about aesthetics. Daimler-Benz was foremost a highly-disciplined engineering firm and much attention was paid beyond mere styling – upon safety in particular. This fascinating diagram prepared by Bracq considers the sightlines of a left-hand-side driver down to the road surface.

Bracq adhered to four self-established principles in car design; well-balanced proportions, a continuous line stem to stern along the flanks to emphasise length, wheels that fit within their well so as to appear flush with the body and a low-set waistline with deep glazed greenhouse above.

At top is another Bracq marketing illustration, not sure about the one below. Neither shape was his, however. The 300SL gullwing and roadster were the work of Friedrich Geiger, and the 190SL from a team led by Walter Hacker.

By the late 1950s, it had been decided to combine these two ranges into a new single model designated W113.

This Bracq sketch from 1958 depicts a sportscar to be powered by the 6.3 V8. Its flared nostril face bears no marque allegience and this was likely only an exploratory study not to have gone any farther than the drawing board. It does, however, represent a stylistic stepping-off point for the W113 project.

This drawing from June 1958 is the earliest I can find of the W113. Still in the sway of the US influence, it sets the proportions for the new model albeit with overly-complicated detailing. Most curious is the accent line along the flanks, which would appear to split the headlight arrangement into upper and lower halves.

And here is a similar depiction in scale-model form sitting behind Friedrich Geiger in his office, suggesting the seriousness with which Daimler-Benz were then considering these shapes.

By 1959, the shape was cleaner. The front end was a tighter version of the 300 SL ovoid headlight and wide-grille face, and the flank accent was removed from the earlier sketch. The car appears to be almost resolved, however the rear would undergo further work. Note the rear lights on the line drawing at right; they take the same flared shape from the 6.3 sportster’s front end.

I can’t find any images depicting how the W113 transitioned to its next stage, but these Bracq renders from the 600-series concurrently in development suggest what would have occurred. At top is a similar rear treatment to the previous W113 sketches with small rear light and chrome flash. In the middle the rear forms are cleaner overall and the light arrangement lower, and at the bottom the final resolution,

This full-scale body from 1961 shows the shape close to completion.

But there was one small addition still to be made.

In 1958, the head of safety engineering Béla Barényi persuaded Daimler-Benz to produce a fascinating prototype. He had named it the K-55 in reference to its ‘kompact’ footprint.

Not long after Paul Bracq had arrived at Daimler-Benz, he found himself talking with Barényi. The object of the discussion was something Barényi had been mulling for a few years. In the middle of the conversation Barényi grabbed a pen and scrawled a diagram of the vehicle he was proposing – which at that point included ‘cats ear’ fins at the rear.

Bracq went away and prepared some technical drawings, removing the fins but keeping the rest of Barényi’s conception intact including its loop bumper arrangement.

This proposal was forward-thinking and utterly pragmatic in so many aspects. The car did not exceed the footprint of the VW Beetle, and yet the passenger compartment was could hold four in the comfort of a larger sedan. A sliding door was proposed so as to further limit its required carpark footprint for passenger ingress (although this aspect was not included on the prototype). Steering, instruments and pedals could be switched from side to side with a few hand movements. The body was built to the principles of the crumple zone and safety cell Barényi had pioneered, and it was symmetrical front to rear which reduced the number of parts needed for construction.

Though I cannot find a ‘W’ designation for this project, these sketches by Bracq suggest this was considered as a Mercedes-Benz car.

Work continued on the shape through the early 1960s, but ultimately Karl Wilfert decreed the project be cancelled.

There was one aspect that was to find its way onto other Mercedes-Benz cars. In maximising its space utility, Barényi had proposed a load-bearing roof for carrying luggage or perhaps even sleeping bodies. In order to strengthen this plane, longitudinal ridges were applied to the roof’s edges.

This was an idea he had patented back in 1956, and on the K-55 was the first example of the Mercedes-Benz pagoda roof.

As the top sketches from 1960 show, this roof-form was applied to the hardtop of the W113. The ghosted drawing shows how it was applied to the upper version, but the greenhouse was still not resolved. Geiger’s sketch bottom left came to something more adroit and Bracq finished it off with a little more rake at the rear.

An instant classic. The whole car was marked by a lightness of volume, from the shallow bodysides to the tall and airy turret. It used minimal embellishment and decoration, and yet was so complete in its expression. It remained virtually enchanged for its eight year lifespan.

The kickup of the shoulderline behind the doors had been downplayed since the 1961 body mock-up, and the rear seemed to sit up a little more eagerly. Adding that piece of trim through to the rear bumper helps, as does the shallower turnunder beneath the doors. Of course the earlier mockup is set lower on its wheels which definitely affects its stance. Both are great shapes, equally deserving of classic status.

The W113 debuted at the 1963 Geneva Salon, with Bracq and Barényi in attendance. It was not long before the press dubbed this car the ‘Pagoda’ thanks to its distinctive rooftop.

Bracq now harbours misgivings about this addition. In 2009, he conveyed these to Gunter Engelen of Mercedes-Benz Classic magazine;

‘In truth the Pagoda is something of an aerodynamic disaster. The concave roof compromises the Cd figure. But it’s what Wilfert and Béla Barényi wanted. And in terms of image, that unusual roof design was to prove a godsend.’

The hardtop itself was a structural tour-de-force. Removable units from this period, including those on the previous Mercedes-Benz roadsters, used thick c-pillar/rear window frames to provide integral strength to a relatively flimsy structure. The pagoda roofline played its part in allowing the W113 such thin pillars.

As to rollover safety, it was a removable unit and thus compromised from the outset.

And of course the shape was also a delight without the roof on. The W113 came with a soft top which folded under the body-coloured metal tonneau behind the occupants which makes it a three-in-one offering. You could also order a sunroof within the hardtop itself as well.

This was strictly a two-seater, although the options brochure did feature a third seat for the rear, as well as natty roofrack that plugged quite nicely into the pagoda rails. There was a short-lived attempt to add two rear seats in the rear. The ‘California Coupe’ (not pictured) was a US-only option removing the soft top completely for extra rear room into which a row of ‘seats’ with armrests were inserted. In practical terms, this was really just an enlarged parcel space with padding.

A true four-seater with extended body and fixed hardtop seems to have been a consideration, but never made it to production.

At the other end of the spectrum was the car’s competition provenance. Driver Eugen Böhringer convinced the board of directors to enter the 6,600km Spa-Sofia-Liege rally and Erich Waxenberger prepared a special version of the 230 SL, with changed gearing and rear axle, engine power boosted by 10% and the hardtop fixed to the body. The car came in first place. It would be entered in subsequent events, and though it never won again it did not disgrace itself.

In 1965, Rudolf Uhlenhaut – who would drive to work in a 300SLR, which was essentially a Formula One racer with gullwing roof – managed to fit the M100 6.3 V8 into the pagoda. As the feasibility study above shows, this required a bit of cajoling and an extra-pronounced power bulge on the hood. Despite its impressive power to weight ratio, the car proved too front-heavy and the W113/12 prototype was destroyed in accordance with Daimler-Benz procedure.

Though demonstrably capable of more, the W113 was really a boulevardier.

One reason for the W113’s relative docility had been the tragic events at Le Mans in 1955 when a Mercedes-Benz W196S racer was catapulted into the crowd, resulting in the deaths of 88 spectators. Daimler-Benz cancelled its substantial (and virtually unbeatable) racing program at the end of that year, and this seems to have influenced its roadcar product planning from that moment as well.

As a result, there was no halo sportscar for the brand as the gullwing had so desirably been the previous decade. Sometime in the early 1960s, Karl Wilfert initiated a project for a car that might be its successor.

The sketch, dated May 1962, would seem to indicate its beginnings. The W113’s shape has been retained but the car has been lengthened between front axle and dash, most naturally and impressively. A gullwing-type grille inserted in the flank behind the front wheel and the pagoda roofline retained. The title for the image, 300 SLX, is another clue as to its ambitions.

These undated images are possibly the next phase. At top is an example with split headlight motif seen on the early W113 sketch. At bottom, the flared nostril face from Bracq’s exploratory 6.3 sportster. Both shapes feature the elongated footprint of the 300 SLX sketch and the pagoda roof, though with thinner c-pillars on the top example.

Here, we again see the split headlights but the shape has taken on an entirely new configuration. This bears no similarity to the W113, and the lengthened roofline seems to have been influenced by the Ferrari 250 GTO ‘Breadvan’ that proved more aerodynamic than the prettier coupe. This may also be concept for a shooting break then in vogue, but with that tapering rear section and no suggestion of a tailgate that possibility seems unlikely. And the gullwing doors make an appearance.

The 250 GTO was the last growl for front-engined sportsracers. The mid-engine revolution was taking place, and Daimler-Benz bought themselves a box seat for the action. In the mid 1960s, a Porsche 904 was purchased for evaluation and this in turn influenced the SLX program

From hereon it seems the SLX was to be mid-engined. The influence of the 904 is most obvious at top, but overall the styling language has changed. The shapes are now marked by a clear division, dividing upper and lower sections of the body. The voluming is entirely different as well, with more curvature and tighter forms.

Though these were rendered by Bracq, this new direction is said to be the work of Giorgio Battistella.

Battistella – at left – joined Daimler-Benz as a stylist in 1964 after stints as Simca and OSI. He was placed under Bracq for the SLX project, and is credited as its primary stylist. Despite this, very few images from his own hand have emerged.

These are the only two Battisella renderings related to the SLX I could find. At top is a 2+2 with similar rear to the scale model in the previous image, dated 20 December 1965. On the rear parcel shelf is the callout ‘(indistinct)30 COUPE’. Its passenger arrangement would preclude the mid-engined format, and this could be a diffusion product based on the pure-performance SLX.

Beneath it is an extraordinary creation, dated 1 October 1965. It is almost impractically underslung and I can’t imagine how the driver would have seen over the wheel arches. More extraordinary are the eight flutes sitting behind the driving compartment, which would suggest a transverse engine. This image was rendered a month before the bare Miura chassis was unveiled at that year’s Turin Auto Show.

It’s not clear what was to power the car. This assignment seems to have been primarily about finding the next shape as iconic as the gullwing. From the looks of these sketches, it was clearly anticipated that this car would find use on the racetrack, as well as being a road customer offering. We might assume the new smaller V8 in development was mooted for this car, as well as the rotary technology Daimler-Benz was then developing.

The SLX was in no way related to the C111 program.

The first prototype shown at right was built in 1969. Named Tin Box by the development team, the roughness of this makeshift body demonstrates the vehicle was designed from the inside out. In 1961, Daimler-Benz had licenced use of Felix Wankel’s rotary engine and a team of engineers based in Untertürkheim were tasked with developing this technology. They had even produced a 1:5 scale model from within their own ranks for presentation to Wilfert, which became the basis for the Tin Box.

Bracq, based at Sindelfingen, played no part in the C111, nor does the SLX seem to have been a consideration. In fact, the first Mercedes-Benz to be fitted with the rotary was a W113 in 1968 as a test mule before it was determined a smaller, lighter body would be necessary.

The end of the SLX project came about with a changing of the guard at Daimler-Benz. Fritz Nallinger, who effectively sat at the top of the technical hierachy, was to retire at the end of 1965 with Hans Scherenberg replacing him. As a result of this transition, projects were suspended pending Scherenberg’s approval. That the board of directors were not impressed with the SLX would have added considerably to the project’s cancellation.

Things had gotten as far as a fullscale mockup produced out of wood.

There is not much information about the SLX out there, and my account of its progression within the styling phase is largely speculative. There doesn’t even seem to be an official name or designation for the program. In my research, I have encountered X, SL X, SL-X, 700 SL and C101/111. Surprisingly, Daimler-Benz seems to have had so little idea about this project themselves, when they exhibited the mockup in 2010 they called it the Sacco Study.

Bruno Sacco joined Daimler-Benz as a stylist in 1958, just a year after Paul Bracq started. By Sacco’s own account, Bracq was stylist number one and he was stylist number two. In 1965, he left Geiger’s department and joined Barenyi to work on safety development. At a guess, this is probably because he felt he was going nowhere with Bracq as number one. He would, in time, prove just as influential as Paul Bracq on the Mercedes-Benz look – perhaps more so.

Sacco was involved with the SLX, but not directly in its styling – he had been appointed development engineer working alongside Bracq and Battistella. However, he led the C111 styling effort, and it would seem for this reason Daimler-Benz had retroactively credited him with the SLX.

Though Bruno Sacco contributed to the W100 and W113 projects, his hand on these shapes is not so evident. The only renderings of his I can find from that period would be these two. They have been credited to Bracq, but for a number of reasons I’m more convinced they came from Sacco. Their file names suggest they were associated with the rotary program, and it’s certainly possible exploratory studies were initiated within Daimler-Benz for a small rotary-powered sedan.

But they may be something else; possibly a part of the W118/119 program.

In 1959, Daimler-Benz had taken full control of the Auto Union entity that included the DKW marque and its attendant two-stroke engine technology. Karl Wilfert was interested in an entry-level model and project W118 was commenced to develop the junior DKW. Engineer Ludwig Kraus was tasked with updating the front wheel drive platform to include four-stroke power and a prototype body was built by 1960. I can find no direct credit for this shape and I sense Sacco’s hand as well as Bracq’s.

It is clearly based on the W113 pre-pagoda prototype, but with all the elements reproportioned. The hood contours are more pronounced and simpler headlights used, but that roofline, grille shape and rear end are familiar. Notable is the rear-wheel placement, set farther back in the body than was conventional at the time. With no rear differential, the opportunity was taken to maximise the cabin space. The prototype was two-sided for four doors and two.

The shape is clean and pragmatic but not overly utilitarian. Despite the fact that it is unmistakeably a Mercedes-Benz, it offers a new slant to the marque identity.

When the DKW F102 was launched in 1963, it would appear as an interpretation of the W118 by Auto Union’s own people. The overall shape is retained, but all the details have been changed including placement of the rear wheels.

With the F102 a sales dud and Daimler-Benz having priorities elsewhere, in early 1965 Auto Union was transferred to Volkswagen. Later that year an updated F102 appeared as the F103 under the name of a resuscitated marque, Audi.

Daimler-Benz’ quest for a bespoke junior model had gained a lot of momentum back in the mid 1950s. For the W122 program, a number of stylists including Geiger, Ahrens and even Wilfert himself produced fullscale body proposals in competition with each other. Some of these would prove to be quite attractive in the conventional RWD sedan idiom. Late in the day, the program was cancelled.

Instead the decision was taken to use a shortened version of the middle-range heckflosse body because of its pioneering crumple-zone and safety-cell engineering, which the W122 lacked. The W110 junior was put to market in 1961.

In 1964, automotive magazine Mot published these speculative images of a new Mercedes-Benz junior. As far as its general proportioning goes they weren’t far off, but in detail they seem to have completely missed the mark. What they anticipated was the pagoda writ as four door sedan. Literally. From the grille and headlights through the body curvature and creasing to the rear end.

That lower kink in the c-pillar does give me pause for thought though.

These Bracq sketches from two years earlier for the W114/115 program show the shape in a different light. The upper image dated February 1962 has a squared off interpretation of the W108/109 lower body with larger rear lights. That greenhouse is very attractive if a little impractical. Evidence enough though that Daimler-Benz were in the thrall of the pagoda roof.

The image below from June of that year has a more daring bodyside. Note that is captioned W115, which was the four-cylinder variant (W114 being the six). Its small round headlight suggests there was going to be strong differentiation between the senior junior and the junior junior models, which would ultimately manifest as variations in bumper treatment.

Most telling is the kink in the lower c-pillar, not seen on a Mercedes-Benz car hitherto – which makes me think the Mot drawings were based on a diversionary sneak-peak of much earlier and out-of-date Daimler-Benz renders.

The shape that emerged in 1968 was effectively a combination of the previous two images; a squared-off lower body and conventional thick c-pillar greenhouse. That kink would disappear, but the shape would introduce its own subtle flavours into the Mercedes-Benz mix.

Bracq felt the final shape was actually too squared-off. For those familiar with this model, the lower image might appear a bit weird. The headlights on that mock-up are actually softer and more rounded, and it changes the whole tenor of the car. That bumper being slightly higher up doesn’t help either, and its a great example of how millimetres here and there can affect the overall impression.

I have to disagree with Mr. Bracq; this was a very accomplished shape in its squarish idiom. It manages to project the senior saloon language without any element appearing out of proportion. A testament to both Paul Bracq and the heckflosse.

I’m not as impressed with the coupe. It scored a lower roofline and introduced a new c-pillar shape to the coupe range but has always struck me as a bit push-me-pull-you. It seems too symmetrical in profile and comes across more as a two-door sedan than a true coupe.

It would be the second body to enter production with the pagoda roof.

Bracq’s preferred version sits at top. He wanted horizontal headlights on the car, but that was nixed by Wilfert. Again, I would disagree with Mr. Bracq. The rest of the car spoke heckflosse, and these headlights needed more than just squared-off volumes around them.

Beneath is a sketch from 1963 by Friedrich Geiger. Despite his being from the previous generation of styling, his mindset still sat within the contemporary. He too seems to have been a fan of the horiziontal, along with most of the car world since the late 1950s. Worth noting here is his own interpretation of the pagoda ridge, almost Renault 16-like.

Though not a hard and fast rule, in the automotive world it was wiser back then to trickle down than to push up. On the one hand, you have the leeway to be more experimental on a junior model – such as the 1960 Corvair – but on the other, deriving the language from the senior models would capitalise on marque identity and brand equity – 1960 Falcon. The decision to clothe the W114/115 as per its seniors was conservative, but correct.

The search for a new visual identity would evolve over three parallel senior projects. To address this onerous task, from 1965 a number of stylists joined Daimler-Benz under Friedrich Geiger’s baton – Joseph Gallitzendörfer, Gérard Cardiet, Peter Pfeiffer, Ferdinand Hellhage, Thomas Hilpert and possibly others.

At top are Geiger’s 1963 doodles from the previous image. The smaller coupes are perhaps his own thoughts for the SLX.

Beneath, a sample of the work from the new recruits for the pagoda’s replacement all dated 1967. In fairness, it must be said that these are exploratory studies. Nevertheless they show a distinct lack of understanding as to what constitutes a Mercedes-Benz.

Paul Bracq was equally capable of such outlandishness, but he doesn’t seem to have lost sight of the marque’s essence.

The face up top seems a bit lost, but makes more sense when one considers the grilled version shown in half below it. The profiles progress recognisably from the pagoda with a lightness of form not evident on the work of the younger contingent.

The drawings up top are from November 1965. The profile undated, but clearly their corollary.

Would that the new model actually ended up looking like this.

A coupe version of the W100 600-series had been a styling assignment since at least 1963. In 1965, Daimler-Benz produced two prototypes, one of which was given to Rudolf Uhlenhaut upon his retirement. The versions built were a literal translation of the sedan.

These undated renders show a progression of sorts. At top, the same lower body as the sedan with a differing turret. Eagle eyed readers will have noticed something similar on Friedrich Geiger’s board a few frames back. In the middle, Bracq tries on the longer nose again, with similar horizontal face to the November 1965 pagoda replacement renders. As with the W114/115 body mockup, this face doesn’t work so well when simply grafted onto the lower body language of the 600 sedan.

At bottom, one of my favourite Bracqs. Even though I had to blow this image up from thumbnail, its supremacy is apparent. The body language seems largely the same, but small things make this a more natural shape. The front end is hard to discern, but appears horizontal – possibly with hideaway headlights. The rear has a faster-angled upper plane and the c-pillar/rear window have moved completely away from the W100’s rigidity. It appears to share the sedan’s wheelbase. Overly long, but so well proportioned and handsome.

I suspect this to be another 600 coupe proposal, undated but (at a guess) rendered after the late 1966 debut of the 1967 Pontiac Grand Prix. Not so evident in this Bracq image is the significant influence the US fullsizer would have on the 1970s Mercedes-Benz.

That influence would be in the bodysides.

With the US idiom moving towards fuselage, the more accentuated tumblehome and turnunder emerging in the mid 1960s would provide the key component of the next decade’s Mercedes-Benz body language.

These unlabelled designs dated May 1964 appear to be for the W116, the middle-range sedan’s replacement. Here Bracq is not beholden to any single shape, and in fact the loop bumper face pre-dates its appearance on production cars across the Atlantic. Inspired by the K-55 perhaps?

Dated June 1965 and labelled W116, we have the shape more clearly defined. With that oversized greenhouse, these might be taken as a junior model, but the nominal wheelbase (2920mm) and body height (1400mm) correspond with the production W116.

The bodysides depict a tumblehome, midriff and turnunder as an uninterrupted curve in section, and running cleanly along the entire length. There are lengthwise accents that relieve the curve without affecting its purity, particularly on the top version. Important too is that the ends are curved in a similar fashion to the sides.

Undated and a two-door, but a four-seater based on a sedan. This would appear to have been produced around the same time as the previous 1965 set; the curved side and ends is present and the features are largely the same. It’s the greenhouse/lower body proportional relationship that has changed, and this accords more with that of the production W116.

Ultimately, the task of filling in the details would fall to others.

In 1967, Paul Bracq left Daimler-Benz.

Tomorrow: Part Two

. . .

Further Reading

My account of the SLX is based primarily on the following three articles

Article on C111 by Karl Ludvigsen at hemmings.com

Interview with Bruno Sacco by Susanne Roeder at globaliter.de

Newsletter 21 from MBMC by Bernd D. Loosen (German)

Article on the K-55 by Christof Vieweg at sueddeutsche.de (German)

. . .

CC Biography of Philippe Charbonneaux by Tatra87

CC Automotive History on the 300 SL Gullwing and Roadster and 190 Roadster by Don A.

CC Automotive History on the W110/111/112 Heckflosse by Don A.

More CC articles are linked within

Yesterday, in the first part of this series we took you through Paul Bracq’s beginnings with Philippe Charbonneaux and his ten years at Daimler-Benz. Today, we look at the rest of his career.

The Louis Rosier was the first Brissonneau & Lotz car of any consequence.

Rosier was a famed French racing driver and also held one of Renault’s largest dealerships. He conceived a roadster based on the 4CV and approached the firm of Brissonneau & Lotz for small scale production. Just before being put to market Rosier died from injuries sustained in a racing accident, and the model was named after him.

Brissonneau & Lotz was an engineering and manufacturing firm with roots back to the mid-19th century. They specialised in the railway and maritime industries, and by the 1950s had branched out into refrigeration, boilers and machine tools.

Their entry into the automotive field had been spearheaded by scion Yves Brissonneau, only 23 years old when production commenced on the Louis Rosier. Manufactured at the firm’s factory in Creil north of Paris, the model was a mild succcess with around 230 examples produced from 1956  to 1959.

The firm found more success with the contract to build the Renault Caravelle and Floride roadster and cabriolets. They did not conceive the shape; that had its own convoluted birth. Between 1959 and 1967, more than 117,000 of the Renaults made their way through the Creil plant.

1967 was a year of mixed blessings for Brissonneau & Lotz.

With the Renault work ending they had managed to secure a contract for the Opel GT, although production would not start until later in the next year. Their role was to be less comprehensive than it had been with the Caravelle/Floride. The steel bodies were to be produced by another firm, Chausson, and Brissonneau & Lotz was to paint, trim and wire the bodies before being sent back to Germany for drive train installation.

But Yves had grander plans.

1967 was a also year of mixed blessings for Max Hoffman.

Hoffman held the BMW concession for the United States. This singular individual had already made his mark on automotive history many times over; the Speedster variant of the Porsche 356 had been his initiative as had the Alfa Giulietta Spider, and it was he who ordered 1000 units based on a distinctive Mercedes-Benz racer, thus being a primary impetus for the road versions of 300 SL gullwing and roadster as well as the smaller 190 SL lookalike.

From 1965 Hoffman devoted his efforts to BMW exclusively, and for 1967 he would see volumes triple thanks to the diminutive and dynamic 1600cc two-door sedan.

The bad news was the larger coupe. Expensive at $5,100, this awkward-looking and underpowered creation found little demand. For a man who had made his fortune selling high-end machinery to the wealthy and aspiring, and with so many more people pouring into his showrooms, the BMW 2000 CS was a major drag on Max Hoffman’s ambitions.

Back in the mid 1950s Hoffman had been instrumental in the creation of the V8 BMW 507 two-seaters. It was he who suggested BMW engage stylist Count Albrecht von Goertz to produce one of the more beautiful bodies of the era. Unfortunately, the 507 was to cost more than a gullwing landed in the US, and Hoffman withdrew his order for 2000 of them. In the end, only 253 were made.

Von Goertz had also styled the elegant 503 four-seaters which also yielded few sales. In 1962, Bertone was commissioned to provide the V8 with a more contemporary body, but this too was met with indifference.

Nevertheless, with the persuasive Hoffman needing a premium sporting model for upsell, BMW took the decision to commission another exotic body specifically for the US market.

So why on earth did they choose Brissonneau & Lotz?

In short; Paul Bracq.

Bracq had enjoyed ten successful years as the primary stylist on Mercedes-Benz cars, and was probably the next in line to take department head Friedrich Geiger’s position. But that opportunity was still years away.Whether it was impatience, the need for a new challenge or just plain homesickness, in 1967 Paul Bracq left Daimler-Benz and returned to France.

It’s not clear if his decision to leave was a direct result of discussions with Brissonneau, but he was swayed considerably by Yves’ ambitious plans to be the French version of Pininfarina or Bertone. In recent years, these two carrozzerie had surpassed their peers by augmenting their styling and bespoke bodybuilding offerings with volume manufacturing capacity.

Yves already had the manufacturing capacity, what he needed was styling of the first order and in 1967 Paul Bracq was persuaded to become head of the Brissonneau & Lotz studio.

Word would have travelled fast among the German manufacturers that Daimler-Benz had just lost its leading stylist, and his availability at Brissonneau & Lotz sufficiently enticing for BMW to seek out his talents there.

Hence Bracq’s first assignment for his new employer was the US market BMW V8. There is so little information on this project, I can only assume the V8 was the same unit from the earlier models and I’m not sure if it was planned with any enhancement.

The bodies Bracq proposed included these swoopy numbers, clearly influenced by the just-launched C3 Corvette right down to the T-top variation.

Here we can see themes repeated from his recent efforts at Daimler-Benz, but the introduction of the coke-bottle form was something new for Bracq.

However, this project was cancelled by BMW before it could ever proceed beyond two dimensions.

One likely reason for this decision was the E9. BMW had given the 2000 coupe the face it should always have had, and under the now longer hood sat the 2.8 I6. This handsome and rakish creation could, and would, feed the upper end of Hoffman’s clientele. Launched to much acclaim in 1968, it effectively made the V8 project redundant.

In 1967, Brissonneau & Lotz also landed the contract for producing the Matra 530 bodies. Aerospace and defence conglomerate Matra had taken over carmaker René Bonnet, and with it came the Renault-engined Jet – a pioneering effort in the field of mid-engined roadcars. The 530 bore the same configuration, but powered by the Ford V4. Despite all the fun that could be had with a Matra Sports “M 530”, it was not a strong seller.

Possibly because it was so damned ugly.

While it’s not clear whether these were commissioned or pro-active efforts, Paul Bracq rendered up a number of Matra proposals. The top example is rather attractive, speaking in the language he had used on the Mercedes-Benz SLX project but with a better balance of volumes. That upper and lower section line from the SLX is also there, as it is on the more exploratory example beneath.

Again here we see the sectioning line, but in another language also glimpsed amongst the SLX sketches. Bracq must have enjoyed the opportunity to experiment with this relatively blank canvas, but none of his proposals would be taken up by Matra.

Ths appealing shape was for a rotary-powered GT of unnamed manufacture. I suspect this to be an in-house effort, either a complete package to sell to a carmaker or possibly their own attempt at putting a whole car together. The greenhouse works better on the model than on the diagram; I’m not sure putting wraparound glass over the rear section would have aided rear visibility much. Gone is the bisection body line, and new to Bracq are the razor sharp junctures.

Bracq mentions working on a mid-engine V8 Gordini and a Simca coupe. The above could be either of those, or it could just be an illustration for a piece of promotional material. It does suggest the influence of another stylist at Brissonneau & Lotz .

Jacques Cooper (right) was employed by Yves Brissonneau (centre) the year before Bracq arrived. Like Bracq, Cooper had attended the Ecole Boulle but his subsequent experience was more varied. He had joined Raymond Loewy’s studio and worked on a variety of design briefs including shopfronts, interior fittings and even a gas pump for BP. The Berliet GAK truck cab was his, as was the Sud Aviation Governor helicopter.

After a brief stint at Renault doing little more than detail work, he joined General Motors in their Frigidaire division working on home appliances before joining Brissonneau & Lotz.

Cooper brought with him his own language, which he applied to the Gordini (top), Simca (middle) and Renault 16 (bottom) projects. That previous Bracq sketch was very much in this language, and these also suggest the rotary GT was a shared effort.

Together Cooper and Bracq worked on the Turbotrain, which was to become the Train Grande Vitesse. It would appear that Cooper was the lead on this project, as all of the surviving renderings are in his hand.

Sportscars would obviously have been the mainstay of the styling studio. Usually produced in smaller runs they allow for a carmaker to commission the same coachbuilder for subsequent production. But as Pininfarina had learned with Peugeot, there was money and kudos to be made in shaping the standard sedan. At top is a section from the earlier portrait with a scale-model in the three-box sedan configuration, as is the front-grilled sketch they are discussing. Not sure what this project was.

Beneath is a Cooper shape for the Simca 1100; an attractive upgrade of their current model. Again, it may be a pro-active effort as Simca had also been involved with Bertone for a number of years and this proposal was never taken up.

During this time Bracq also did some work with Solido toys, though I think this was a private commission. On the front of their 1970 catalogue is a rendering by P Bracq.

On the rear was the Style 80 styling set featuring worktable, tracing gantry, dummy chassis, special tools, a set of templates with detailed instructions and plans, and special wax. Three (and a half) models were pictured, but they were not part of the set and were in fact wooden props.

Bracq lent his name and provided drawings for the promotion of this set, though I’m not sure he designed the prop models. Style 80 seems not to have progressed past its first year, but was no doubt a fun moment for Bracq and reflective of the name he had made for himself.

In April 1968, Car and Driver’s David E. Davis Jr. wrote a rave review of the BMW 2002 and even more customers were flocking to Max Hoffman’s showrooms. The 2 litre version of the 1600 two-door sedan came about when it was apparent the 1600 ti version would not be emission-compliant for the US. Coincidently, two of BMW’s engineers had already put the 2-litre engine into their own 1600 bodies, and this more powerful variant hit the ground running.

It’s possible the E9 coupe killed the V8 BMW sportscar project, and it’s also possible the 2002 killed it as well. When BMW cancelled the larger car with Brissonneau & Lotz, they changed the brief to a smaller car powered by the 1.6 and 2-litre engines.

In 1968 Bracq set to work on roadster with removable hardtop. This project was given an official BMW model code, E19. Blueprints were drawn up and a full-scale model built with plans for production in 1971.

The concept was modelled on the W113 pagoda, but not a direct copy. The 67 Camaro influence evident in the orange sketch gave it hips – but ultimately downplayed with the junctures sharpened. Bracq’s flared nostril face finally found form, and that rear side window treatment for the hardtop was also familiar. Bracq had proposed it on one of his pagoda sketches, and it would appear in a couple of years on the Mercedes-Benz R107. This was an appealing shape and would ably fit a niche not then covered by BMW.

In late 1969, Brissonneau & Lotz fell under the control of Peugeot, Renault and the TGV entity – these last two being state-owned. With the recent political unrest spilling out into the streets and nationalistic fervour running high, the French automakers were not pleased to see Brissonneau & Lotz working with German manufacturers.

In January 1970, Renault sent a letter to BMW cancelling the project. BMW was also somehow precluded from continuing with this shape for themselves. For Paul Bracq, this was the last straw.

Any personal ambitions he might have harbored in becoming the French Battista PininFarina were dashed. It would have been a death by a thousand cuts as project after project failed to get off the ground. And now this indignity, just as one of his shapes was progressing towards production. This period probably marks the greatest disappointment of his career.

In 1970 Bracq left Brissonneau & Lotz.

The news was no better for Jacques Cooper. The Opel contract had also been cancelled, thus depriving the business of much-needed income.

Cooper was working on the Murène proposal for the Porsche 914/6 and management had been persuaded to buy donor car. Why this project was allowed to continue in light of the BMW and Opel decisions, I don’t know. Later that year Brissonneau & Lotz was separated into its various industry divisions and hived off in pieces. Chausson got control of the automotive works and Alsthom the train division. Chausson themselves were in financial difficulty, and allowed Cooper to take the project to another coachbuilder, Heuliez, who built the prototype. It was shown at the 1970 Frankfurt Show but Porsche didn’t take it up.

Cooper joined Alsthom where he would see the magnificent Train Grande Vitesse through to completion.

And Paul Bracq joined BMW.

In 1970, the Munich firm commenced construction of their new striking new headquarters. Ten years before they had been on the ropes, and nearly swallowed up by Daimler-Benz. But thanks to some deft shareholder manoeuvring, Quandt family money and the Neue Klasse, things were now on the up. This potent symbol of their rebirth designed by Professor Karl Schwanzer was scheduled to be completed for the 1972 Munich Olympic Games.

Since 1955 Wilhelm Hofmeister had led the company’s styling through the hard years towards the better. But the newly appointed 41 year-old CEO Eberhard von Kuenheim took the opportunity to employ Bracq and Hofmeister was transferred to other duties. The range Bracq inherited wasn’t in bad shape; at top the refreshed E9 coupe would serve alongside the senior E3 saloon for a number of years yet, and the 02 two-door was going from strength to strength.

But the smaller four door sedan was past its time.

This was the car that had helped resuscitate BMW fortunes. It was marketed as the Neue Klasse (New Class), a brilliant indirect riposte against the more conservative Mercedes-Benz, and it brought fresh air and modern dynamics to BMW’s own phlegmatic set of senior sedans.

Its brilliance was compounded in establishing a body language unique to the marque and capable of application across a variety of shapes and sizes. The circumference lip and lightly suspended greenhouse might have been shared with others, but that shark face was of its own. Nevertheless, not even rectangular headlights on the 2000 model could blind the observer to its now aging contours.

Bertone had been engaged to suggest an updated body language. Commissioned before Bracq joined, the Garmisch prototype penned by Marcello Gandini was exhibited at the 1970 Geneva Show. Many credit this car with BMW’s new direction, but there was very little carried from this shape to the production cars. Certainly the surfaces are cleaner, and the c-pillar/lower body relationship might have prompted thought, but the rest of the shape was angular as a BMW never would be. Case in point, those kidneys.

Pietro Frua was also engaged via his work with the BMW-powered (and swallowed-up) Glas. As evidenced by this 1969 sketch, his presence on the project also predates Bracq’s. And with this sketch we can see unmistakeably the E12 shape. Of course the c-pillar kink is a strong prompt, but the curvature and volumes of the whole body are in harmony with the rest of the BMW range.

Perhaps Frua’s other sketches finished the car in the round, and perhaps Bracq brought his own deft hand to the shape. The E12 defined the next 15 years for BMW as much as the Neue Klasse had defined the last ten. The face is a natural progression from the E3 and E9, but bereft of the chrome lining. The treatment of the unadorned metal as it curves to meet the grille aperture is a subtle but confident touch.

Where the E9 coupe revelled in its raw dynamic thrust, the E12 brought more sophistication to that dynamic. The circumference lip was retained, and the volumes took on a fuller aspect without coming across as overfed. This is an underrated shape, and unjustly so. By June 1970, the E12 was complete.

The E12 was to debut at the 1972 Olympic Games, alongside an electric version of the 02 two-door. But there was another BMW that would overshadow these both.

In December 1971 Bob Lutz joined BMW. He had been with Opel since 1963, and the offer from BMW at eight times his previous salary was enough for him to take on the role of Executive Vice President, Global Sales and Marketing.

Both he and Bracq lobbied hard with von Kuenheim to produce a concept car for the Olympics. Von Kuenheim wanted the E12 to be the main focus, introducing the new look as well as a new nomenclature system for BMW – 5 series. BMW had never produced a concept car purely for show before, but he was convinced by these two enthusiastic new employees.

The shape arrived complete at birth – as Bracq tells it, in one night. But as with all flashes of genius, it was informed by years of prelude. This was in a language Bracq had not yet mastered, but we only have to look at the Solido catalogue from a few years before to see its near-complete precursor.

The one main change from its conception would be to open up the rear wheel well.

The E25 was a quick-turnaround project, only six months from sketch to built. Bracq’s team at BMW was a small one, and he was to shape this car himself from stem to stern.

With BMW having no experience in producing a car this quickly from scratch, another friend of the company was called upon. Giovanni Michelotti had been a part of BMW’s success since his work on the diminutive 700 in the late 1950s. He was also instrumental in the progression of the Neue Klasse look, but his aesthetic capabilities would not be required here. The body of the concept car would be built in his Turin workshop, giving easy access to the highly-skilled craftsmen required to complete a bespoke job on a tight deadline.

BMW Turbo.

Paul Bracq’s masterpiece.

The shape was split into upper and lower sections with thick division line Bracq had used on previous sportscar shapes. But here the inspired decision was to set the division at an angle connecting the low front plane with the higher-set rear. The bottom edge of the greenhouse shape was crucial in supporting what might have otherwise been a jarring feature. The leading edge of the car was canted as per the BMW shark face, but its voluming was a new interpretation.

The kidneys fit the face most naturally, emphasised by their own pronounced contour running back up the hood as per the 300 SL shapes Bracq had shown Karl Wilfert in 1955. In leaving the frontal aspect relatively featureless, the kidneys become the keystone element.

The rear was a revelation. The cavity between the wheel wells housed the exhaust system behind a black grille with four pipes exiting at an angle echoing the side accent line. The negative space was framed by the wheel wells leading down to slight flaps. If you can picture that space filled with body, even if it follows the flap contour, this car would appear too heavy at the rear.

It’s the perfect solution for that high-set tail. This lexicon has re-emerged in the more recent past and can be found on multiple models from multiple carmakers whether they be performance shapes or body appliqué to a bread-and-butter hatch.

And, of course, it came with gullwing doors.

Comparisons with the C111 are inevitable. Even in its most attractive 1971 C111/II iteration seen closest, the BMW Turbo makes the Mercedes-Benz look like an aardvark.

Better-looking than the factory efforts was the non-official (but logo-permitted) Cw311 from bb. Built in 1978 as a production proposal around the M100 V8, the BMW Turbo’s influence is obvious. Having said that, it does stand on its own as a fantastic shape.

Its rounded forms stood in contrast to the prevailing origami aesthetic, but the BMW Turbo sat alongside the best of its era. Of any era, really.

Though intended for show, the BMW Turbo was also a functioning vehicle. The whole car was in fact built over 2002 mechanicals, and occupied a relatively similar footprint although nearly a foot lower in height. It was quoted by the factory as having a top speed of 155 mph, with a 0 – 62.5mph time of 6.6 secs and a 0-100 of 15.7. Its quoted output was up to 280 din-hp (206 kw).

As its name gently implies, this car was turbocharged.

In 1967 Porsche had managed to get their 911 into the division three category of the European Touring Car Championship, and won that year. BMW was miffed that the 911 was allowed in the same division as their 2002. They won with Dieter Quester in 1968, but only by half a point over Helmut Kelleners in a 911.

Forced to improvise, for 1969 BMW mated a KKK turbocharger to the ti fuel-injected engine. At 17 psi boost, the engine could return 320 hp, though durability was not a strong point on this hastily-prepared arrangement.

Dieter Quester won the division again with teammate Günther Huber in second thanks in part to the 2002 ti/k (kompressor) run along with the normally-aspirated versions for the season. The following year, both turbocharging and the 911 were banned from the category.

Though I can’t find any evidence of the BMW Turbo being run through its paces, it was nominally running the same arrangement.

The BMW Turbo was unveiled to the press on 23 August 1972, a few days before the Olympics commenced. Its debut would have been overshadowed by the terrorist events during those Games. It was first seen in the metal by the public that October at the Paris Salon. A promotional brochure was prepared in both German and English.

The brochure was illustrated by Bracq. As its following text explains, the BMW Turbo was about more than just a fast car that looked fast.

‘One of BMW solutions for the future: regenerating crush zones. On the BMW Turbo, the front and rear crush zones are separated to form deformation sections. In the case of a collision the first zone collapses. The light units remain undamaged. This deformation zone is made of a synthetic material which springs back to its original shape. In the second phase, if the collision is more severe, the impact energy is also taken up by the telescopic shock absorber. It is only in the third phase that the crush zones of the body shell itself are deformed.’

The text goes on to explain that the body featured a wraparound roll bar, and with its high sills gave the car strong side imapct protection. The steering wheel featured three universal joints and padded boss to minimise imapct to the driver. Body contoured seats held the driver tight during cornering, and the seat belts were coupled to the ignition.

I’m not sure if all these features actually functioned, but there was also a radar linked to the car’s speed to determine if stopping distance was sufficient. Pressure warning lights were included for first and second brake circuits; further lights for brake fluid, brake wear and oil level. The car’s external lighting was connected via fibreoptic circuits to the dash to verify their functioning. The dash ergonomics were mixed; all controls were within easy reach but the interface was an information overload.

In all, though, the car presented a well-conceived aggregation of the various safety advances as they were progressing thoughout the industry at that moment.

For 1973, a modified version of BMW Turbo was shown at the Frankfurt Motor Show. It had received a new colour combination and covered rear wheels..

The original sketches of the BMW Turbo depicted it in white. Bob Lutz asked Bracq to give the showcar a graduated color scheme like that he had admired on the Mako Sharks. Bracq agreed, but used a different colourway. As the 1972 brochure noted; ‘phosphorescent paint front and rear shows other road users from afar that the BMW Turbo is on the road’.

Bracq based this on the high-visibility trainer jets he had seen at the Air Force base in Creil while working at Brissonneau & Lotz. But the orange on the BMW Turbo blended too much with the red used for the rest of the car. He felt it necessary for something darker to emphasise the graduation.

As he told Mike McCarthy of Classic and Sportscar in 1991;

‘I remember my first Porsche was a ruby red one, and I used to spend 10 minutes every day cleaning it before I took it out – I loved that car. When it came to the BMW Turbo, I chose the same colour in memory of that Porsche.’

I’m guessing this 356A is the car he is talking about, and though the colour is not apparent its deeper tonality is.

The rear wheels were covered when Bracq first conceived the shape. This was in hommage to the Touring-bodied BMW 328 coupe that the won the 1940 Mille Miglia.

Also running that year was an in-house body shaped to the principles of Wunibald Kamm. It would not prove as durable for the race, but is a closer cousin to the Turbo shape in its swayback profile, daylight openings and truncated rear. You can see the pointed end of the Touring 328 behind it in the lower pic. I’m not sure that this body had as direct an influence on Bracq’s Turbo, but the coincidence is worth noting.

Only two examples were ever built, the second a pushmobile display model. Both were given the deeper ruby paint and covered wheel sides. In my opinion these modifications only detract. The wheel covers are removable and the car has since occasionally been presented without them, but the revised colouring remains.

From the outset, the BMW Turbo was never intended for production. And yet it appears so ready for the road. Though Bracq’s shape was predictive, this was no abstract exercise. It seems entirely feasible that it could have been a part of the BMW product range. Externally speaking that is.

But it would have needed a complete internal overhaul. The racing-based engine would not have been appropriate for the road, and with the vehicle having been prepared in haste the body, drivetrain and platform would have needed further development. More than this, though, is that the car was presented as a showcase for safety. Remembering that it was initiated at the urging of Bracq and Lutz, von Kuenheim would have insisted on more than just a frivolous dreampiece, and its safety aspects retro-actively applied. In doing so, BMW drove themselves into a conceptual cul-de-sac. To have put this car to market without its whole package might have come across as not in keeping with its apparent reason for being.

BMW was just not ready for this sort of car on their production lines or in their showrooms. Nor would they be when the M1 – the Turbo’s spiritual successor – arrived in 1978.

In fact, we need only look at 1972 to see how underprepared the BMW Turbo was for the road.

The BMW 2002 Turbo was launched late that year, with flares and spoilers from Bracq. Running a detuned version of the KKK arrangement, it was a screaming baby beast putting out 170hp. But it was turbocharging at its more rudimentary; lacking a wastegate, intercooler and – crucially – the electronics required to subdue its neck-snapping lag effect. Killed as much by the OPEC crisis as by its own performance shortcomings (or over-eagerness), the 2002 Turbo was in production a scant 10 months.

The 2002’s replacement would arrive in 1975 as Bracq’s next body for the road. He derived the E21 3-series two-door shape directly from the E12 5-series lexicon, although the headlights earned indicators alongside. Though the shape of the E21 was pleasing enough, this larger and heavier car gave away most of the driving magic of its 02 forebear. Interesting is the lower shape; an update of the unsuccessful 02 touring body. Given the Alfetta GT, Lancia Beta HPE and Renault 15/17, I can imagine this packaging might have seen more success in the 1970s.

Bracq also did styling work on BMW’s motorcycles. I can’t tell you anything about this facet of his work, except that the motorcycle division got its own styling studio in 1973

The next new shape slated for release was the 1976 E24 coupe, to replace the E9 coupe. This was planned as another 6-cylinder car, based on the smaller E12 rather than the senior E3. Karmann was to produce the bodies, and their contribution to the styling phase included these literal translations of the E12 four-door.

Bertone too derived their proposal directly from the E12, though with thinner c-pillar than Karmann. This would make it to fullsize prototype, but not to production.

At some point BMW chose to give this model its own body, and by 1972 Paul Bracq was pretty much there. It was to be called the 6-series.

The from-scratch E24 shape was based on a napkin sketch Bob Lutz had drawn for Bracq. Lutz would have been privy to the development of the Opel Commodore and Rekord coupes released for 1972, and the similarities are apparent.

How much can a napkin sketch project, though? In profile the Opel carried the shark face not seen on previous models, and maybe they were themselves trying on a bit of implied BMW excellence. The E24 carried the same general profile as the Opel, but it was also in keeping with the lexicon Bracq had been developing for BMW.

Both shapes were attractive, and sufficiently different. The E24 was the superior.

This blue example is a very attractive shape based on the Turbo and the E24. The nose fits the body perfectly, and the wheelarch flaring is a positive addition. These shapes are either a late-in-the-day rethink of the E24, or possibly for a V12 BMW project Bracq mentions on occasion. This hybrid sportscar/coupe configuration, along with a V12, would find form in the 8-series of 1989.

The version beneath appears to have a chisel-nose front profile. I don’t mind the taillight, but that rear wheel skirt…

At top is a drawing done years later depicting Bracq’s preferred face for the E28 7-series of 1977. Again we see the chisel-nose, and it just seems to make the shape more generic. The disguise panel on the development mule below is not a sign BMW was moving in this direction. As Bracq told McCarthy;

‘I was unhappy with the first 7-series; it was to high, looked too heavy. I wanted something more like a Jaguar. I fought with the concept office – Bob Lutz, in other words – but then came the fuel crisis, Lutz left, and I decided to return to France as well.’

These drawings bring me to consider something I also encountered when writing the John Blatchley pieces; the output of Bracq at Daimler-Benz, and Blatchley with Rolls-Royce and Bentley, epitomised the classical automotive form. Yet both men strove for a modernity not necessarily in keeping with those marques, and were less than satisfied with shapes many others considered just right. The E24 BMW was Paul Bracq’s best roadcar shape for the Munich firm, and yet these?

The answer of course is that the creator must keep moving ahead; what’s fresh to the consumer is years old to the stylist. The path to finding the unknown next is littered with dead-ends.

The cars Paul Bracq left with BMW may not all have been to his own personal tastes, but they were of a whole. Maybe the 3-series could have been more svelte, and maybe the 7-series was a bit ungainly. These are minor disappointments, not outright failures.

Together these cars edged BMW up the ranks of the desirable, gave body to the proposition of the ultimate driving machine and never betrayed the marque identity that preceded them. They were the unfaltering steps towards even greater heights to come.

And in return, BMW afforded Paul Bracq his single greatest opportunity.

In 1974 Paul Bracq took up a position with Peugeot at double his previous salary. He was appointed head of interior styling, which I suspect is an indication as to how much he wanted to go home. Of course, when the company’s main dealership is furnished with these amazing desks by Max Ingrand and Ben Swildens, perhaps this is a company paying closer than normal attention to the car’s interior.

Over the next 22 years he would be responsible for the interiors of the 305, 505, 205, 405, 106, 406 and 206.

The 205 project is a particularly pleasing one for Bracq, as well as for Peugeot. For the first time in many years, the internal proposal – led by Gerard Welter – was chosen over the Pininfarina proposal, Bracq is proud of the modular arrangement he conceived; allowing different binnacles for the various 205 models. He himself would own a 205 GTI as daily driver for twenty years.

Perhaps emboldened by their internal success with the 205, Peugoet embarked on a number of concept cars. In 1984 came the Quasar, with interior by Paul Bracq.

Oxia of 1988.

Probably Bracq’s most striking interior; 1986 Proxima.

Paul Bracq may have moved on from styling cars, but he never left depicting them. In his distinctive style he has painted the cherished cars of his youth, the admired cars of others as well as his own superb creations. He continues to do so presently, seven hours a day.

His son Boris runs Les Ateliers Paul Bracq; refurbishing for customers the cars shaped by his father.

He remains happily married to Alice, above, to whom he proposed in 1961.

In 2005, when asked by journalist Alain Ribet to reflect on the success of the pagoda shape, Paul Bracq’s response was applicable across all his oeuvre;

‘The fluidity. The body of a pretty woman. Neither the shape of a knife nor that of a potato.’

. . .

Appreciation to jim, Tatra87 and Paul Niedermeyer for their help.

Further Reading

Les Ateliers Paul Bracq

Article on Brissonneau & Lotz by Terry Shea at hemmings.com

Biography of Jacques Cooper at leroux.andre.free.fr

Ate Up With Motor on the Opel GT

The BMWs of Pietro Frua at pietro-frua.de (German)

. . .

CC Automotive History of the BMW V8 by Tatra87

CC Automotive History of the BMW Sportscar Shape by Don A.

CC Biography of Claus Luthe – Bracq’s successor at BMW – by Perry Shoar

More CC articles are linked within

The Guardian has published a photo essay on the plight of sharebikes in China. We’ve had a similar scheme launched recently here in Melbourne, with bikes ending up being thrown into rivers or hanging from trees. This all goes to the complexities as we shift to the rent/share economy; how do we get people to treat these objects with respect or do these objects need to account for our human-ness?

Some of these images are quite beautiful, the randomness adds its own touch of nature. Of course scale is the key thing here. It just boggles the mind that there can be so many of these; whether rejected, or damaged, or whatever has happened to them.

You can see the rest of this series at The Guardian, here.

From the Toronto Star.

This Toyota Corona Liftback lives around the corner, and I get to enjoy its presence on the road fairly regularly. This generation is a dying breed; I see more of the 1964+ shovelnose than I do these. To be honest, I never paid this gen much attention back in the day but it’s great to see amongst all the modern conveyances.

Here it is another time. As you can see, it has been very well maintained. The liftback was a new addition to this generation of Corona. While the standard sedans and wagons were built here with the Holden-sourced 1.9 litre four, the Liftback was a fully-imported up-market offering with the Toyota 18R 2 litre four. New Zealand assembled their own Liftback later in the T130 period, but used the 3T 1.8 litre four in theirs.

Now, of course, we are seeing every second premium four-door with a fifth hatch. Or at least a fastback look.

I can’t remember noticing the driver of this one, but I’d hazard a guess they skew towards the elderly. One of the newer denizens of this street parked their BMW i8 curbside for a while, and you noticed in the first frame what the neighbours keep in the garage. But around this way newer Ferraris are a common occurrence. Toyota Corona Liftbacks, not so much.

Further Reading

CC Capsule on the T130 Corona Wagon by William Stopford

CC Capsule on the T130 Corona Sedan by Matt Spencer

Thought I’d found a Cordoba. A little looking-into told me this was the concurrent Charger SE. SE is crucial here, as the non-SE Charger had the front clip whole body from the Coronet coupe. The things you learn and keep on learning thanks to XR7Matt. Anyway, it’s not quite QOTD status, but to the best CC can tell this is a 1977 model.

Nice house. Very much of the same period as the steed.

The car is not native to our shores. Apparently Chrysler Australia brought in three Cordobas for appraisal, but not sure about whether they also looked at the Charger SE. This one’s left hand drive, which makes it more likely to be a recent(ish) import.

So I can’t figure out what year this is. I’ve seen that grille, the rear side window treatment and front fender badge ordering on various brochure shots, but not all on the same car. Over to you.

Further Reading

William Stopford sings Lou Rawls for 1977 Charger SE

William again with a 1977 Charger Daytona

Tom Klockau on a 1976 Cordoba

Robert Kim on a 1977 Cordoba

Saw this car for the first time a few days ago.

A short history of chunky, Japan style.

Then.

Then.

Then.

Now.

I know what you’re thinking; that’s not a Skyline.

It’s a Silvia. By Kei Miura.

Miura does chunky bodykits.

But on this one he’s remodelled the entire front clip.

And in the process has completely changed the car.

Not a slave to its forebears, the shape takes on a life of its own.

The Silvia from back then. Pass.

The Skyline from back then. Yep. Flares and grille rings.

Headlights?

Cuda or Mero perhaps.

Three-quarters.

A9X or E24. Maybe both.

This is retro. It’s a slave to its forebear. Creativity starved of oxygen.

This is heritage. Done really, really well.

This is heritage. Done really, really well.

RX-7.

RX-3.

More than the sum of its parts.

Familiar.

Yep.

But Montecarlo.

Chunky, Italy style.

Daily driver is an E30 BMW.

Way cool office.

Hasn’t done as much to the rear of his cars.

But who knows.

hehehe

Childhood dream.

Kei Miura speaks to my soul.

…

Pandem rocketbunny tra-kyoto

Bootleg catalogue

Kaminari no aoi kujira

Efficient Dynamics

Photos:

Dino Dalle Carbonare, Larry Chen, TokyoTuner, Aaron Mai, JC Pepino, pete_fas, Cymon Taylor

With appreciation to sensei-chunky Papa Squid

…

There are coincidences and there are coincidences. According to the dictionary, the word describes a remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

At top is an illustration from the brochure of the BMW Turbo. Beneath, an illustration from a document outlining the DeLorean Safety Vehicle. This is no coincidence.

It’s early 1974 and John DeLorean already had a lot to look back on.

Not ten years before, he was the youngest-ever head of a General Motors car division. Don’t let those baby-jowls fool you; this guy was a tiger.

By education, an engineer and MBA. After a short stint with Chrysler, John DeLorean got a job at Packard and by 1956 was head of Research and Development. It was a soft start to an automotive career; Packard was seriously on the wane but nevertheless a lesson in itself. It was here that John DeLorean became closely acquainted with the Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing.

Working on a fuel-injection project, he had turned to one of his engineers, Heinz Pringham, for advice on the best system available. Heinz opined with the Bosch unit used on the Gullwing. DeLorean instructed him to buy one of the cars for appraisal. For six months it was Pringham’s daily driver; enjoyed especially by his son Frank (at right) on school runs.

September of 1956, and DeLorean was in charge of advanced planning at Pontiac. He reported to new chief engineer Pete Estes under recently-new division head Bunkie Knudsen. The right place at the right time. Knudsen initiated a 20 year golden run for a moribund Pontiac, and DeLorean was a key figure in its success. An early inadvertent effort would resonate through the next decade.

In 1957, I was working with Chuck Jordan of GM Styling on developing a new independent rear suspension system for an advanced model car. We ran into a problem mounting the suspension system on convertible models, which were the rage of the era. To do the job, we had to spread out the rear wheels. And to make the car look right, we had to do the same to the front wheels. This gave our big cars a 64-inch tread.

We put the car into clay mock-up form and the two of us were amazed how the car looked so much better planted on the road. Widening the tread gave the illusion of lowering the car. The instant Bunkie saw the car he said, “Let’s put that on a production car”.

Very early spring 1963 and chewing the fat with Bill Collins and Russ Gee at the Milford proving grounds. Bill pointed out the 389 V8 engine would fit into the new Tempest. Russ proposed building it in his Experimental Department. DeLorean gave the go-ahead.

By now Pete Estes had taken over Bunkie Kundsen’s job, and DeLorean was chief engineer. Problem was, GM rules didn’t allow for such a large engine in an intermediate model. So Estes put the engine into the range as an option and not as a model, a canny move to avoid scrutiny by the Fourteenth Floor. The dawn of the muscle-car.

In 1965, a 40 year-old DeLorean was appointed head of Pontiac. He inherited it a marque in ship-shape. The range was still setting benchmarks across the entire industry, let alone within the General Motors family.

His remit was now much broader, and he found himself having to deal with issues such as outdated plants and a recalcitrant sales division as much as the product itself.

He was no longer reporting to just one man; from now on he would have to justify himself to the Fourteenth Floor.

This suite of executives built on a Sloanian framework was positioned at the top of the whole GM hierarchy. Chairman, Presidents, preferred Vice-Presidents and the all-powerful Committees worked, ate and sometimes slept in an exclusive zone covering one of the end I-sections of the GM building in Detroit.

These were supra-divisional beings sitting at the apex of corporate America. And yet in 1965, this 1920s structure was calcifying.

DeLorean didn’t stop moving. He was already working on a sporty two-seater coded XP-833. It was to be smaller than the Corvette with as much sourced from the parts bin as possible. The idea was to provide a very wide range of options over a relatively cheap base. DeLorean was quite partial to this project; Bill Collins had put the idea to him in 1963 and they kept at it. By 1965, two running protoypes were built; the first powered by a 230 six, and the second with a 326 V8.

In September 1965, Bill Mitchell received a memo instructing him to repurpose the Pontiac XP-833 clay into ‘a Chevrolet design for the two-passenger version coupe.’

Maybe this one.

Top image is the Corvair Monza studio around 1962. Beneath, Shinoda and Schinella’s XP-819 ‘Ugly Duckling’ – a rear-engined Corvette prototype from 1964.

This language was not Pontiac’s property. It belonged to General Motors.

And General Motors could do whatever they damn well like with it.

But this was all still beyond John DeLorean’s pay grade; Fourteenth Floor stuff.

He pleaded through to March 1966 for the XP-833. As a consolation of sorts, he was allowed to turn the Camaro into a Firebird.

His fixation with reducing size and weight continued. In 1967, he arranged for some models to be built of a proposed new fullsize range for Pontiac. They were based on the intermediates, but using a longer wheelbase. These models were so impressive, DeLorean managed to convince Pete Estes – now running Chevrolet – to go along with the project. Again: no from the Fourteenth Floor.

Except for one; the (wildly profitable) 1969 Grand Prix.

In 1969, DeLorean was running Chevrolet. The fast lane. Instead of one assembly plant, he was now juggling eleven.

It was a corporate car, not a divisional car.
It was being put together by people at least one step removed from the marketplace.

His time there is typified by the Vega. Although he was an exponent of a smaller car, the Vega was a child of the Fourteenth Floor. It was overseen personally by President Ed Cole and shaped by Bill Mitchell. Since the early 1960s Pontiac and Chevrolet had been developing their own sub-compacts, but the corporate proposal was chosen. This car put to market was well under par as both a sub-compact competitor and a consumer product.

DeLorean was subject to massive gravitational forces; where the inexorable rise is the compelling force without regard to necessity. He was hardly able to attend to Chevrolet’s many issues before being pushed upward into the Fourteenth Floor in 1972. The realm of learned helplessness. No longer tied to the day-to-day of running a carmaker, DeLorean was set adrift in ineffective meeting after meeting.

He was also suffering a personal withdrawal of sorts. Through Chevrolet’s marketing efforts in Hollywood, he had become one of the westcoast jetset. At the company’s expense, he enjoyed a sybaritic coterie far apart from the stuffed shirts and country clubs of Detroit. Access to this lifestyle was quelled somewhat by his separation from Chevrolet, and no doubt fed his frustrations. He wore a suit, but it was too flamboyantly cut. And he let his hair grow.

The Fourteenth Floor didn’t want him there, and he didn’t want to be there. Whether it was he or someone else who leaked the Greenbriar speech (his Jerry Maguire moment), his time this close to the sun was over.

DeLorean agreed to leave GM in June 1973. Not that he seemed to have much choice.

And now John was hanging loose.

There was no longer a $650,000 income, but there was the GM soft landing. DeLorean spent a year as a President of the National Alliance of Businessmen working on a project around employment for the disadvantaged. He gave speeches promoting his ideas on car size and weight savings.

At one outing he revealed that he had designed two cars over the past year; a mini-commuter and a sporty two-seater.

In early 1974, he met with journalist J. Patrick Wright and a book deal was made with Playboy Press. For the next year Wright took notes from conversations with DeLorean, then wrote out a text in first-person-John outlining the industry’s failures and his success. It included such chapters as How Moral Men Make Immoral Decisions that touched on GM’s handling of the Corvair.

Shown a finished manuscript in 1975, DeLorean was impressed but he was wary of GM and backflipped on publication. Despite this, he also refused to return Playboy’s advance and the project was left in limbo for four years.

In 1979 Wright published the book himself at a cost of $50,000, and saw nearly a million dollars from its sales.

DeLorean’s term with the National Alliance of Businessmen earned him his GM base of $200,000. There was a scattering of other interests including property – though none delivering at the scale of his previous employer.

He had a share in Grand Prix of America, seen above with second wife Cristine at the wheel. This was a Bricklin-inspired venture with the general public paying to drive rotary powered reduced-scale racers on private tracks. It was a dud and that year fell into bankruptcy. DeLorean ended up being sued by his brother Jack, who had brought him the deal.

In January 1974, he formed the John Z. DeLorean Corporation.

He was captured that June in his Detroit office by Time/Life. The putative car was now definitely a sportscar; save for the bike renderings there appears to be nothing of the mini-commuter. On the wall next to him are a number of car diagrams; Fiat X1-9, Porsche 914 and two mid-engined Corvettes.

When John became head of Chevrolet, Zora Arkus-Duntov introduced him to the Corvette concept they were planning to show that year.

If Harley Earl was the father of the Corvette, Arkus-Duntov was its cool uncle. He had been called in just after the car was conceived to add some zep to its performance. His became the dominant will on the model; he notoriously clashed with the Bill Mitchell on the C2’s split window. Mitchell won the battle, Arkus-Duntov won the war.

Nearing retirement, the XP-882 was to be Zora’s swansong.

The XP-882 project was commenced in 1967. A Toronado transfer case was mated to a 454 and positioned behind the driver. The body was slightly cab-forward and had a wide grille aperture that looked unfinished. This might have been as a result of airflow for the distant engine. The clay shows the shape with a more enclosed mouth, sharing the contours from the rest of this attractive shape.

Two cars were built, one for the 1969 New York Auto Show. It didn’t make as much of a stir as expected and the project was parked.

In 1973, DeLorean asked Bill Mitchell to provide a revised version of the XP-882. It was called XP-895 and involved an overhaul of the body. A sugar-scoop theme was used at the rear and the nose was slightly more faired with NACA dusts added. One of the 1969 cars was the donor for XP-895, with a body built in steel. It was too heavy.

DeLorean had an exact replica of the platform and body made in aluminium by Reynolds Metals. It was too expensive.

The other 1969 car was to become one of the greatest shapes to emerge from General Motors.

Thanks to a longer nose and revised greenhouse, this was the XP-882 as it should have been. Still cab-forward, the centre line defined by the leading point of the nose and the crease of the windscreen succeed in balancing the equilibrium. It is dynamic but not overbearing, with clean curvature and surfacing delicately but assuredly tempering the razor’s edge. Very sophisticated, but wondrously simple.

It was the work of Hank Haga and Jerry Palmer, with Ted Schroeder, Randy Wittine and Ron Will playing their part.

This shape very nearly made it to production. In 1975, it received a fresh round of promotion as the aero-vette. The aluminium chassis from the Reynolds XP-895 with 400 V8 was used as the basis for a road-going car and as of 1976 it was approved, with orders for production tooling awaiting go-ahead.

But Zora was gone. He retired from General Motors in 1974, and his cherished mid-engined Corvette had lost its greatest champion. The orders were never greenlit.

The aero-vette shape was first seen in 1973. Back then they called it the 4-rotor and it was a priority for GM.

Very, very reluctantly, Arkus-Duntov had put a rotary in the Corvette. In 1972, a 585 cu inch 4-Rotor was mated to the first 1969 XP-882 platform and Arkus-Duntov took President Ed Cole screaming around the 1-mile track in the bodiless car. It was still pulling when they backed off at 148 mph.

The 4-Rotor got a significantly better body than the concurrent XP-895.

The 2-Rotor got the XP-895’s sugar-scoops with the 4-Rotor’s windscreen crease. Ordered in 1973, XP-897 was a rush job and had to be built by Pininfarina. A Porsche 914 was sent to Italy and received a new body to a GM design over a 180hp rotary.

Tha 4-Rotor and 2-Rotor were sent to Paris for exhibition in October 1973. By the time they got there, GM’s rotary program had effectively been cancelled.

DeLorean was telling the press he had tried to get the mid-engined Corvette. What he was really angling for was the little Porsche-based XP-897.

He did end up getting a Fiat X1-9 – the Red Rocket. A DeLorean feasibility mule with Ford Cologne V6 mid-engined power married to a cartoon rear.

But that was still a year away.

The Red Rocket was to be prepared by Bill Collins, DeLorean’s colleague from the Pontiac days. In 1974 Collins had just completed overseeing the development of the downsized B-body platform for General Motors and was mulling more money at American Motors.

John got in touch about working on a sportscar. With gullwings.

They had worked with gullwings before.

The 1963 XP-798 project was a pre-emptive move against the Mustang. The longnose body housed a 421 V8 almost mid-front and was independently-sprung all round. It could have been a very nice driver.

It was a gorgeous shape. Except for those 20 inch doors and pathetic winglets.

The XP-798 was slated for the New York Auto Show in 1966 and given the name Banshee. At the last minute it was dropped from the show, and the first Pontiac Banshee was never actually seen by the public.

When DeLorean came calling, Bill Collins was driving around Detroit in his little Pontiac roadster.

In preparing to leave General Motors, he got to thinking about the XP-833. Back then, Collins and colleague Bill Killen had somehow managed to have the two functioning prototypes hidden away on site. If he was ever going to get his hands on it, now was the time.

Miraculously, Pontiac agreed to sell. Killen got the silver one. Collins got the V8.

The XP-833 was never a Banshee until 1973, when Bill Collins went to the design staff, retrieved some badges from the still-unseen XP-798 project and put them on both his and Killen’s roadsters.

Bill took the sportscar job for less money.

When he arrived in late 1974, he was greeted by the model on John’s table. Not likely a General Motors artifact, it was probably crafted for John by some Detroit professional in their off-hours. It’s a smart shape, though taking a lot from the Maserati Bora.

Giorgetto Giugiaro’s Maserati Bora.

But that was so 1971. By now, Giugiaro was folding paper.

As soon as he joined, Collins was on the plane to Italy with DeLorean. At the Turin Salon were two new shapes from Italdesign; the Hyundai Pony Coupe and Maserati Coupe 2+2 concepts rendered in Giugiaro origami. The three men got to talking.

John and Bill returned to the US, having decided on Giorgetto, but not having commissioned any work.

On his return, Allstate Insurance got in touch with John. They had been impressed with his talks on safety and standards during his recent public tenure. DeLorean was asked to prepare some papers around automotive safety, with a particular focus on the airbag. His work outlined savings that could be made, not only in lives but in dollars too, and Allstate was impressed.

They offered him $50,000 to develop the idea of a safety car that could be built in 1975.

DeLorean prepared a brochure.

Significantly, there is no mention of Allstate throughout the piece.

The arrangement DeLorean was seeking was one where he kept all the car’s intellectual property for himself. What Allstate was buying was the right to associate themselves with the product. Implied by their absence within the text; if Allstate passed on this document, it could then be presented to another party – another insurance company perhaps.

One thing’s for certain, this document was not for public consumption.

Not all the intellectual property was DeLorean’s.

In August 1972, the BMW Turbo was presented just before the Munich Olympics. Though an attractive car, it was soon overshadowed by the hostage crisis that unfolded that September.

What’s even less-remembered is that the BMW Turbo was a showcase in safety.

The concept itself had been rushed to fruition. With only six months to the Olympics, Paul Bracq and Bob Lutz were still to convince CEO Eberhard von Kuenheim to produce the company’s first concept showcar. It was finally approved, but it was to also feature safety. With a name like BMW Turbo, you’d hardly know.

It had a progressive crumple zone that was never actually tested and radar systems regulating the car’s speed that were never actually demonstrated. The principles were correct, but the BMW Turbo was more a compendium of possibilities.

All there was to show for its safety aspirations was a 4-page, 8-sided foldout brochure printed in English and German that was given away at European motorshows that year.

Paul Bracq himself illustrated the brochure. His distinctive style popped out of the saturated orange.

Whoever did the work for DeLorean, they were a professional.

The similarity doesn’t stop with the images. Both texts start with a negative appraisal of the way contemporaneous safety cars appear. Both point to the high-sill of the gullwing doors being a safety benefit. And so on.

The specifications and dimensions were different; the DSV being a larger car.

The gamble paid off. None of the senior actuarial-types at Allstate remembered the BMW Turbo, if they’d ever seen it in the first place.

DeLorean got the $50,000.

Giugiaro would have spotted the similarity in an instant. I doubt he was shown the whole document.

He received the specifications and dimensions in March 1975. I don’t know what he was to be paid, but there was a $65,000 bonus due when the cars entered production.

In 1968, James Hanson convinced Pininfarina to build him a bespoke car. It was a coupe shape on a Bentley T-series platform, and Hansen was hoping to sell the idea back to Rolls-Royce as a Bentley Continental. Pininfarina provided a fully functioning car ‘at cost’ for £14,000.

Giugiaro was only to supply a wooden mockup, so I would estimate his ‘at cost’ price on delivery to be about $30,000.

None of the early proposals look like the BMW Turbo. On the whole they are much closer to Giugiaro’s Hyundai concept than any other car.

With an option chosen, Bill Collins insisted on dealing with the rear pillars for visibility. A louvred appraoch was considered, but a clean glass aperture was the better solution.

When it first saw daylight, the wooden mockup looked wonderful from any angle.

How gratifying it must have been to lean against this most handsome and tangible thing.

The wooden exterior mockup and a capsule housing the interior mockup were handed over to Bill Collins by Giugiaro in June 1975. Collins asked for the technical drawings defining all of the surfaces.

A surprised Giugiaro replied; ‘I’m sorry Mr Collins, but it is the model that represents our definitive work, not any drawings. You’ll find that specified in the contract.’

Allstate was so pleased with the mockup, in late 1975 they gave DeLorean $500,000 for the construction of three functioning prototypes.

Curiously, when the DSV was first revealed that December in Road & Track, Allstate’s name was nowhere to in the article.

Allstate did get mentioned the next time. Quite a lot in fact.

That was February 1976, in Popular Science. After that they were never heard of again.

In October 1975, the DeLorean Motor Company was incorporated.

Transferred to the new entity was all the car’s intellectual property from the John Z. DeLorean Corporation at a nominal value of $3.5 million.

That nominal value was provided by Zora Arkus-Duntov.

The first of the functioning prototypes was still a year away. At this exact point in time, the only real assets they had were the wooden DSV exterior and interior mockups, and the newly-arrived Fiat X1-9 feasibility mule. Probably less than $100,000 in capital expenditure. Even if you sift Arkus-Duntov’s dollar figures through the layers of GM bureaucracy, there is still a large disparity left over.

The value of intellectual property.

In the end, over $100 million in global investments and tax incentives would evaporate. Charges would be laid, but a heavily beaten John Z. Delorean emerged legally unscathed.

For further reading on this, I recommend Dream Maker, The Rise and Fall of John Z. DeLorean (UK title: DeLorean…). Two financial journalists, Ian Fallon and James Srodes, were on the trail before the drug scandal hit and map out a dense trail on both sides of the Atlantic. It’s a compelling, dispiriting read. We see greats such as DeLorean and Colin Chapman of Lotus for their financial feet of clay – to put it politely.

We meet Roy Nesseth, above, a car dealer with convictions for fraud; he was to DeLorean what Harry Bennett was to Henry Ford. The conduct described is negligent at best and criminal at worst. Published only three years after On a Clear Day, this book makes for a sobering counterpoint.

The car changed.

A lot. From a body in ERM, to fibreglass to bare aluminium. Engines from rotary to Citroen 2 litre to Ford Cologne V6 to Douvrin V6. A backbone chassis became necessary, leading to the decision to move the engine from mid to rear. From this carguy’s perspective, at that last point the vehicle became unacceptably compromised.

For an overview of the car’s development, I recommend Aaron Severson’s excellent piece at Ate Up With Motor.

The shape hardly changed.

At top, the original DSV wood mockup. Middle right, the first functioning prototype delivered in October 1976. which follows the shape of the wooden mockup closely. Behind it, a pre-production prototype from 1977. Most of the change was in the driver window frame. At bottom, The 1981 DMC production model showing minor alterations to the nose. Nothing appears compromised. It is a testament to this shape that it was able to hide the change to rear-engine so well.

The only thing that disappoints is the aluminium finish, which doesn’t photograph as well as the painted wood.

Comparisons with the Esprit are inevitable. Its mid-engined dynamic hints at what the DMC could have been.

But this Giugiaro shape was designed around Colin Chapman’s chin-to-chest racing posture, and the DeLorean was a taller proposition, a gentleman’s express. That grille serves in some ways as a metaphorical necktie.

In a genuine coincidence, Giugiaro was asked to shape the BMW M1. Which he did, with a side treatment he had tried on the DeLorean.

The DMC was superior. One of Giugiaro’s better efforts for the time, but no iconic shape like the 300SL.

It achieved its icon status thanks to kitchen appliances.

When Bob Gale and Rob Zemeckis were writing the script for Back to the Future, the time machine was originally a fridge. Then they realised the possibility of children mimicking the movie, so they found something better. Only 4 years before, John DeLorean had gone down in flames after being arrested on drug trafficking charges. For the western world, it was the Edsel saga as seen on Miami Vice. The irony was well-milked for laughs. This classic piece of cinema still hasn’t aged.

Personally though, I prefer the shape without a Magimix sitting behind the cabin.

Until a few weeks ago, Paul Bracq was unaware of this document. I sent him a copy and he was not impressed with what he saw. Nevertheless, he was complimentary about DeLorean during his Pontiac years.

I don’t believe BMW were aware of it either, let alone their permission sought. I do believe it’s genuine, so to speak.

It was retreived from a website run by Tamir Ardon. The site is a deep repository of press clippings and documents relating to DeLorean, which gives me much faith in its provenance. Moreover, Tamir assisted Aaron on his AUWM piece.

It also matches a description given in the Fallon and Srodes book of a document as found in the Allstate archive. I’m fascinated to know how Ardon came across it.

Late 1975, and Bill Collins is demonstrating ERM to the interviewer. In front of him; a 1:12 scale-model of the BMW Turbo with the passsenger compartment removed. Those slightly oversized wheels give away its origins.

Bought off the shelf.

I want this guy to win.

He dresses like Laurel Canyon aristocracy, and has a gorgeous wife to wrap his arms around. For his Pontiac years alone he is an Immortal. And this car looks so full of promise.

His best years came in a cocoon. He flourished within the massive infrastructure of GM; coddled by the very system he rebelled against. Without that deep deep-pile cushioning, he had no way to absorb the many bumps on the carmaking path. He didn’t set out to crash, it just accelerated that way.

And yet you have to wonder what sort of man finds himself in a hotel room negotiating millions of dollars for kilos of cocaine; entrapment or otherwise.

In 1948, a 23 year-old John DeLorean was questioned by the FBI. It seems he had taken a Yellow Pages telephone directory, clipped out the ads and sent them to the advertisers with an invoice for the next year’s payment. These payments were to be made to a company registered under a name similar to Yellow Pages, but owned by DeLorean. Thanks in part to character testimony from his college professors, charges were never pressed.

…

My appreciation to Mr. Paul Bracq

DSV brochure and Prospectus page at Tamir Ardon’s site

Zora Arkus-Duntov letter at deloreanmuseum.org

Paul Bracq and the BMW Turbo

EfficientDynamics and the BMW Turbo

Mirror-polished DMC-12

…

What with the recent frenzy and all, feels like as good a time as ever for another instalment of the Colonnades of Melbourne. This week’s episode features the Grand Am, a styling standout from the period at General Motors. For me, it marks the last excellent body-contour nose-cone on a road-going Pontiac. And to answer Paul’s QOTD; it’s my third favourite colonnade.

The roots of the body-contoured Pontiac nose-cone can be found in the 1967 fullsizers. The Grand Prix had nearly half its frontal area unadorned by chrome, as if the body was wrapping round itself.

That year marked the last of the stacked lights for the standard fullsize face. Even these magnificent creations had quite a bit of bodily real estate folding over the front.

The intermediates were following a more traditional stacked light and grille arrangement, with the GTO continuing to receive detail changes while keeping Tempest sheet metal up front.

But with the new Pontiac A-bodies in 1968, it was the GTO that got the unique bodywork. The nose of the car now blended completely into the whole form’s contours.

The skin now seemed to be folding back into itself, giving a superb extruded effect.

The cone was made of endura, a specially formed closed-cell urethane foam that was bonded to a steel frame. It was famously hit with a sledgehammer in the hands of John DeLorean, showing little after-effect from impact.

And it allowed the body shell to be capped in its own kind.

The Grand Prix was also up for some more wrapping, but that was back when it was going to be a B-body. Instead, in 1969 it became a mini-Mark III with all the family silverware on display.

As top-halo, the Firebird should have been the first car to use endura. Given the quantum leap it enabled the stylist, the exotic F-body seems the logical place to start.

But it was rushed into production the year before endura, so it got looped chrome like the fullsizers. In 1969 it went halfway, with a body-coloured non-endura (I think) nose-cone with protruding chrome grille rings. The treatment was sophisticated, but no match for the simplicity of the previous iteration.

1970. Peak body-contured Pontiac nose-cone.

The Firebird landed a superb shape all round, with a front end providing a sophisticated counterpoint to its gorgeous Chevrolet sibling.

It extrapolated quite nicely into Trans Am and Formula, and for three years it was wisely left virtually untouched.

The 1970 GTO earned a great nose too.

Ironically, 1970 also saw the single worst face ever on a Pontiac.

Plenty of folded-over real estate, so little poetry.

This tendency to ugliness started to permeate the GTO. The 1971 nose cone saw larger grilles with protruding rim, and it felt like seeing the 1970 model distorted through a rain-dappled lens.

Things were looking up for the 1973 GTO, which was to be based on the incoming colonnade A-bodies.

I love the bottom sketch, Gena Loczi uses a great technique of ghosting the tyres and undershadow to make the car look like it levitating. The sculptural elements leading to the point of the nose are a perfect corollary for those fendor contours.

It takes that whole contoured nose thing into even better territory.

Ultimately, though, the 1973 GTO was to wear the bread-and-butter LeMans nose-cone and chromed bumper.

Sales of around 40,000 in 1970 had plummeted to just over 10,000 for 1971. And it didn’t recover. 1973 saw 4,806 being built. 1974 saw the GTO transferred to the compacts (cheers Leon).

The Grand Am was the GTO refined. Out was outright power, and in was an emphasis on driving dynamics and finish. In a European way. While Oldsmobile was adorning their cars with the flags of the world, Pontiac was identifying in the opposite direction.

The story of the shape’s evolution from How Stuff Works;

Wayne Vieira, who would become chief designer for GM’s Saturn small-car subsidiary, confirms that “Charley Gatewood was the designer who came up with the original front-end sketch. Charley’s a very modest person, and he would tend to say something like, ‘Oh, actually . . . I remembered an old sketch that Ted Schroeder did years ago. All I did was to do Ted’s sketch over again.’ But it was Charley who sold the idea.”

Vieira continues, “And to help sell the design to Bill Mitchell, Charley did this full-size air-brush rendering . . . a white rendering with black grille slots. It really stood out from across the room. In fact, when Bill Mitchell walked in, all he said was, ‘Jeeeeeeezus Christ!’ And we were off and running. He brought people in to see it, and it was really quite exciting. The graphics on the front were so strong and unique compared to what was on the road at the time,” Vieira recalls. “In fact, we all felt that when the car came out for 1973, it had by far the best front end of anything in the industry.”

As Bill Collins is showing us, this nose-cone was also made of endura.

A totally integrated shape. There’s no telling where the panels end, as if the whole body is sculpted out of a single piece of material. And a significant plus; it’s the assimilation with the bumper that makes this the overall success it is.

Looking down the hood brings even greater pleasures; clean forward-thrust supported by an absence of bumper in the fenderside.

The Grand Am was no quick-and-cheap application of a stabilizer bar, blackout trim and a vaguely foreign-sounding name to make a Euro-fighter. This was no Ford Granada ESS or Chevrolet Celebrity Eurosport. The Grand Am was the ne plus ultra of the Colonnade cars, something that was distinctively American with a dash of something exotic and new. Daringly styled, dynamically poised – is it any wonder the Grand Am is a key member of my dream garage?

For anyone not familiar with this car I recommend you feast on William Stopford’s overview. He makes this a 1975 due to grille accents, and says that year there was no manual available.

They paid proper attention to the whole fenderside. The upper and lower taper like a well-relieved flame spear.

It worked nicely at the rear too. The rear bumper didn’t get as unique a treatment, but it still worked well in body colour.

My problem with the colonnade two-doors is that they look imbalanced to me. The ends are too long for the middle.

Both the 1972 Torinos and 71 Satellite/Sebring put the colonnade in the shade.

But with the colonnade, the sculpting into the flatter proportions gave the car a self-assured shape – in some ways more natural than any GM intermediate before it. It didn’t even need four headlights, and it still looked long and low.

As with Paul, I think the colonnade shape needs air. The sedan cabin gives those long ends sufficient distance between.

The Grand Am nose works on the other body configurations as well. The wagon, a desirable factory prototype; the pickup, a very appealing homebake. Hat tip to Krautwursten.

That said, the 1973-75 Grand Am is the best of the two-doors. This semi-fastback roofline suits the curvaceous lower body much more than the upright alternative. And the face on this one is the most integral of all the range.

GM were doing interesting things with endura. The Lagunas were themselves the most appealing of the Chev A-bodies. But not as successful in comparison to the Pontiac.

For the Firebird in 1974, the purity of the last three years couldn’t be worked around the bumper laws entering full effect. The chisel approach here was no match for the Grand Am’s bumper integration.

There were apparently plans for a 1976 Grand Am, but I’m not sure if it had a unique nose-cone against the newly overhauled intermediate front clips.

Above is a 1974 Grand Am All American, with added spoiler. That’s all I know about this. Over to you.

This 1975 Grand Prix concept shows some really nice touches. The frontal treatment here is more sculptural and better integrated than anything that would enter production from here on, making this in a sense the last of the superb body-contoured Pontiac nose-cones.

I first came across this one a few years ago. It was parked down the road from another first, the 1973 Buick Centurion I wrote up here. I figured they both belonged to the same person, but the while the Buick is there to this day, I’ve never seen the Grand Am there again.

But I am seeing it all the time.

Around Toorak Village, where this one lives.

And that’s not all, within a couple of hundred metres of this lives yet another colonnade. Go figure.

CContributor Jim has captured our hero car from his office window.

His shots show the actual colour; mine were taken from a cellphone camera that was rapidly developing a warm bias. I actually prefer the more magenta hue on this shape.

So the Grand Am – whether it be two-door, two-door plus tailgate, four-door or five door – is my third favourite colonnade.

Second: Buick sedan.

Not because Kojak, but because even in poo-brown this shape shines as the best of the sedans. A great basic face, with narrow jutting chrome bumpers emphasising the horizontality. The semi-fastback sedan greenhouse trails so well into that falling trunkline which both echo the 3D sweepspear. Nice.

Number One (a) and One (b). 1973 Olds or Buick wagon.

The more I look at these, the more I love them.

…

1973 GTO/Grand Am concept sketches at Dean’s Garage

William Stopford’s CC on the Grand Am

The Colonnades of Melbourne Part 1

…

Got this postcard from T87 enroute through Charles de Gaulle Airport. Another one of them pesky anonymous cars.

It’s not just the car up front; both behind have had their tail-lights fiddled with.

More thrilling adventures:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

One day a while back I took a long stroll to the beach. On my way I managed to capture a host of CCs, but this one in particular stuck out. First I’ve ever seen of this wagon.

But that c-pillar seems familiar.

In 1951, Chrysler Corporation US took control of the Australian arm, which was running a distance behind the big two here in sales. For 1953, they used the US Plymouth Belvedere four-door as the basis for a number of models under the various marques. And being the Australian way, they built their own ute version.

Plans for 1957 featured a more bespoke offering. A number of prototypes were prepared over a sedan platform being developed in Australia; AP1 (Plymouth), AS1 (DeSoto), and AD1 (Dodge). They were to be differentiated by trim, with the Dodge earning a body-coloured split grille divider sitting in the shorter front clip.

At the last minute it was decided to combine the three models into one sold through all dealers – Chrysler Royal.

What they didn’t have was much money.

This meant the longer lower wider finnier US range for 1957 was out of their league.

What they got instead was the grille bars from the US 1957.

Sitting in the front clip from the US 1955.

At the rear, US 1956. But note the c-pillars.

The Australian 1957 Chrysler AP1 was built over the US-sourced P25 1953/54 body. Australia had continued with this through 1956, and it was to be used as the basis for the new 1957 model. Fender sheet metal was shaped according to the US 1955/56, but the cabin from the earlier donor had to be retained.

A Plymouth Belvedere was the starter, and some c-pillar/rear window action from its contemporaneous seniors was added.

Presto. Back to the Future.

Launched in February 1957, this first series was coded AP1. At some point ‘P’ stopped referring to Plymouth and started meaning Production. The Royal sedan was given a name not used by Chrysler since before the war.

The wagon got something newer – Plainsman.

It earned its name from a showcar. The Plymouth Plainsman complemented the Flight Sweep I & II and T-bird-targetting Falcon on show from Chrysler Corp in 1956. It had caught the sportwagon fever from the Corvette Nomad, a fever also sweeping through Europe. It’s not as outlandish as some, if a little awkward. The thick v-shaped c-pillar does a great job as the central motif in profile.

But because it was based on pre-1957 proportioning, this was a briefly visible effort.

That keystone c-pillar was tried over the US 1957 bodies, and looked the part. Up top is the Plymouth Cabana. That one looks like it could be a two-door with shortened passenger cabin. Beneath the DeSoto in four-door hardtop.

In the end the US 1957 got that c-pillar ever so subtly.

The Plainsman’s thick V would not actually appear on US Chryco wagons until 1960, with the Plymouth Valiant and Dodge Lancer. The outline was retained, but a window inserted.

The thing is, the Valiant/Lancer used this window shape as a matter of volition, whereas the Australian Plainsman came to this c-pillar courtesy of the sedan.

And so, by a happy accident the emerging wagon option had a similar treatment to the US Plainsman. Good naming opportunity.

A similar issue afflicted the Vauxhall PA Cresta estate built by Friary of Basingstoke, Hampshire, using the sedan’s doors. The Humber sedan had a similar rear greenhouse, but Rootes managed to give its wagon something more in keeping.

The original Plainsman concept car actually made it to Australian roads. As Kurt Ernst over at Hemmings tells it;

Because the Plainsman was built by Ghia in Italy, the clock on its time in the United States began ticking immediately upon its importation. At 18 months, Chrysler was faced with the choice of paying import duties or shipping the car overseas, and it opted for the latter. The Plainsman’s first foreign port of call was Cuba, where a bank president used it as his family vehicle before selling it to a Chrysler export manager, also living in Cuba. When Castro came to power, it soon became necessary to flee the country with all due haste, and the Plainsman’s plus-size cargo area surely proved beneficial for the run to the border.

The export manager’s next assignment was Australia, and the Plainsman followed him down under. To meet local regulations, it was converted from left-hand drive to right-hand drive, and during his time in Australia the original drivetrain was swapped for a 375-hp, 440-cu.in. V-8 mated to a TorqueFlite automatic transmission, which remains in the car today. Retirement brought the export manager back to the United States, and the Plainsman once again made the journey with him.

In late 1958, the Chrysler Royal got a makeover. It was called the AP2 series, and lasted through to early 1960. The face had a bit more brash, and the sidesweep more dash.

The sedans came with extra fins mounted on top of the previous gen; they were apparently an option but efforts to find an original example wihout them appear fruitless.

We also got a ute for AP2 called the Wayfarer, with the raciest roofline of the three.

Our hero car is an AP2 model from early 1959. I found it in a car rental yard, but it’s not for the taking.

It’s a daily driver; starting up easily at request. One of 220-odd Plainsmen against 1200 Wayfarers and 13,000 Royals.

I’m not seeing anything else like this on the road. The odd converted hearse but no big three or otherwise standard wagon. I love seeing wagons so it’s been a bit of a drought.

That gold V sitting in the grille means this is a V8. That callout is US Plymouth, and its appearance on these Chrysler models is apparently an AP2 thing only.

The AP1 was initially powered by two flahead sixes; the US 230 with manual or Canadian 250 with PowerFlite. Eventually the 230 was phased out.

In late 1958, the AP1 got a 313 cu in V8 which continued in the AP2. I’ll leave it to those better informed to discuss this image.

Paul mentions that it’s closely related to the 318 poly, but barely the same thing. I couldn’t find any images of a Royal racing in period, and only this dust up from the 1970s of Greg Nicholas at Narrogin Speedway. This particular V8 made its way into an AP6.

The South Australian Police used Royals in their fleet. Mostly because Chrysler was headquartered in that state. None of the other state police seem to have followed suit.

It saw more use as an ambulance. These sorts of oversized rears were the norm over here, and continued into the 1970s sitting on F-series Fords.

The hearses have far more refined rear greenhouses. Thanks to CC’s own William Stopford, at bottom is one is in profile. The Plainsman itself also served hearse duties, but I couldn’t find an image of one as such.

It was also available from the factory as a van with the handles removed from its rear doors.

It’s a tad homebake. Squarecut upper with thick frame, outer hinges on the lower.

The roof is the big giveaway. The Plainsman was built in the Chrysler factory, and not sent to a specialist body builder. Those ribs are the result.

Inside, stepped wheel wells at differing diameters. This gives it a taking width of 45 inches. With tray and rear seats down, 95 inches of carrying length.

But it was up against some hard competition.

There were two Fords, a very expensive and expansive Ranch Wagon that was actually brochured for this market, or this smaller and handsome British-based estate.

The Mk2 Zephyr and Consul had a wagon body developed here in Australia. Unlike the Abbott-bodied Farnham Estate seen on this and the previous generation back in the UK, the Australian wagon had a winding down rear window. Introduced in 1958, it was built until 1962 but by then the Falcon wagon was going strong.

The General had even nicer wagons. Holden had got to the factory longroof in 1958 as well, but called it a Station Sedan. The FE/FC shape is one of our best, and the wagon really nailed it.

Or you could get the best-looking of all the Big Three; batwing at special order.

The Plainsman was dropped from the AP2 range sometime in 1959. It never penetrated the Australian consciousness as the Falcon and Kingswood station wagons were soon to do.

It’s as exotic to me as it is to you.

This beautiful period shot of an AP1 is thanks to sv1ambo.

In 1960, the AP3 was unveiled. The face now sported canted stacklights, and went back to a simpler flat grille. The ute remained for a while, but it was a Royal sedan as the last registered in 1964. Production effectively stopped in 1961, because Chrysler needed the capacity for its new model.

1962 would see the Plymouth Valiant introduced to this market. It was a large sedan compared with our ‘standard’ British cars and even the Holden, but was never built in Australia as either two-door or wagon.

To 1959, Chrysler Australia would bring over CKD units of post-57 Plymouth, DeSoto and Dodge cars in very small numbers from Canada. From 1960, they created the local Dodge Phoenix which was initially a rebadged Dodge Dart before being a rebadged Plymouth Fury from 1965. This too was a sedan-only arrangement, although special connections might have wangled a longroof.

After the demise of the Plainsman in 1960, the only factory wagon Chrysler Australia could offer the public was from the just-taken-over Simca.

In 1963 the Chrysler Plainsman got a successor with a natty little v in the c-pillar, and a new name. Valiant Safari.

The Chrysler Plainsman never really had a chance.

But as with all old vehicles today, it is a simple and genuine pleasure to see such a rarified creature in the real.

Further Reading

Great articles on the AP1-3 at allpar.com

1953 Plymouth Cranbrook by Jason S.

1955 Plymouth Belvedere Suburban by Paul N.

1957 Plymouth Belvedere by Laurence J.

Ozmoparloiteration by Don A.

…

When a row of shops came down in busy Chapel Street, the housing commission buildings sitting behind came into view. I stumbled across this one winter evening, when the apricot sundown was still catching the higher surfaces in the area.

I took this one a few days earlier. The clouds seem to give the shot more of a sense of scale. Plus, the Volvo is a more apt analogy for that rectangular apartment block.

But I think the 1994 RAV4 is the truer classic.

(first posted 4/9/2014 – with comments left by the daughter of this car’s owner) Last week I caught myself an Aussie beast rarer than the Tasmanian Tiger: a Ford Landau. This example was being driven by an old dear, at least 70 years old, propped up on cushions. I think she saw me with my phone ready to snap, because the car paused for a moment before running off into the wild. Which makes now the best time for an overview of the 1972-1979 Broughamus Fordaustralis.

In 1972, a completely new design clothed the Australian ‘full-size’ XA Falcon range. As per Ford Australia’s product spread, a LWB Fairlane variant was to be made available. For the previous three years, the Australian Fairlane had essentially been a local version of the US stacked-light Fairlane/Comet. This blue example is the April 1972-released ZF Fairlane.

The XA series was designed by the Ford Australia team of Brian Rossi (who sketched the original Hardtop coupe upon which the entire range was based), Allan Jackson, and design head Jack Telnack. These three individuals were transplanted to the US in May 1968 to take advantage of clay modelling capabilities not yet available in Australia.

www.uniquecarsandparts.com.au

According to author Joe Kenwright, the ‘final’ signed-off clay from 1969 as shown here featured a protruding centre in the grille. When Bill Bourke, legendary MD of Ford Australia, saw this he decided to pull it from the ‘bread-and-butter’ ranges, and use it on models anticipated to be even more premium than the Fairlane. The Fairlane itself was to have only a ‘watered down’ version of this protruding grille.

The ZF Fairlane styling differed from the XA (Falcon) mostly at its extremities. The lettered bonnet peak and ‘watered down’ protruding grille with crest and twinset headlights alerted you that this was no mere Falcon, Futura or Fairmont; and the rear light cluster was a unique full width strip arrangement. Inside, front seat passengers enjoyed similar high-backed ‘tombstone’ buckets as in the SWB Fairmont (a higher trim Falcon, for those unfamiliar with Aussie Ford nomenclature), and those in the rear could give their legs a bit more of a stretch.

Aussies could choose a ZF from two levels; the Fairlane Custom and Fairlane 500. The Custom came standard with the 250 I6, and with the 500 it was the 302 V8. Both could be ordered with the 351 Cleveland. The body was 198.8 inches long and 74.6 wide. Wheelbase was 116 in. (compared with 111 in. in the SWB models) and track was 60.5 (front) and 60 (rear). If you were too far away to see the badging, the Fairlane 500 could be distinguished by the chrome strip running under the doors.

In 1973, Ford’s highest premium range was launched. Intended as a replacement for the 72 Galaxie LTD which had been brought in by Ford Australia and converted to RHD, the P5 LTD–as photographed here by Glen.h–was much closer in appearance to its Aussie brethren. The snout from the original XA clay model was finally utilised in its uninterrupted horizontal-bar form. And on either side was an Aussie-made first; headlights hidden behind vacuum-operated flip-up covers.

The P5 LTD was even longer than the Fairlane. Wheelbase was increased to 121 inches and overall length to 203.8 inches, with that wheelbase increase being taken by the rear doors. The LTD featured unique side markers front and rear, and the rear quarters were re-profiled with a taller edged ‘fin’. The 351 came standard along with a plusher interior and air conditioning. The extra-rare 1975 LTD Town Car came with a leather bound owner’s manual and an LTD umbrella.

And if the 1973 LTD wasn’t enough to keep the patriotic elite in a frenzy, Ford concurrently launched the Landau. It was a Falcon Hardtop body dressed in an LTD tuxedo inside and out. The first Aussie-built car to feature four-wheel disc brakes, but not the first ‘super’ premium coupe built here (that honour goes to the 1971 Chrysler by Chrysler CH Two Door Coupe). Pictured here is a 1975 model wearing disc wheelcovers from the LTD Town Car (initially a fiftieth anniversary commemorative trim package) .

When you compare the profile with the incoming XB Hardtop, the most visible change to the Landau is the shape of the rear quarter window. This ‘filling-in’ of the metal work, coupled with the high moisture-retention vinyl roof, resulted in much ownership angst and presumably many casualties in the years since. The Landau also received the full width rear light strip from the P5 LTD, which itself was different from the Fairlane version. (The 1973 ZG Fairlane was pretty much the same as the ZF, with an eggcrate-type grille replacing the more horizontal ZF version.)

In 1976 the curvy bread-and-butter range received its final styling warmover as the XC. The longer wheelbase saloons copped a more substantial redesign. Their bodies received a squarer set of edges and ends in keeping with trends in the US market. The ZH Fairlane had the same 116 in. wheelbase as the ZF/ZG, but was now 204.6 in. long and 77 in. wide. The 250 I6 was dropped from the ZH, so the 500 became the base model and the Marquis was introduced as the Fairlane’s top model. Those squarish lines made the ZH perhaps the most harmonious expression of all these 70s super premium Fords.

Again, the LTD received the most distinctive visage, this time with a prominent upright grille that evoked Britain’s finest. Coded P6, this car was now 211.2 in. long on its 121 in. wheelbase. Width was the same as the ZH. Some may say that face is straight off the Cordoba, I prefer to think Ford consulted my Grandfather who had replaced his company Galaxie with a Volvo 164 to carry him in his retirement.

Dimensional differences are most apparent in these profile shots. The white Fairlane was captured recently by fellow carspotter AVL, whilst the lens-flared LTD is the best I could get with my phone camera (apologies). The ZH Fairlane received the newly waist-lined rear doors from the XC sedan, and the P6 LTD carried over the glasshouse and doors from the P5. These two bodies did a very effective job of hiding their curvy origins.

Apparently an updated P6 Landau Hardtop was considered, but never moved past a single styling proposal. Production numbers for the P5 Landau are quoted at 272 or 1385, either way not very many and for Ford Australia, not nearly enough to justify the costs when the base hardtop was nearing run-out mode. 1979 marked the end of the curvy XA-XC period for Ford. It was to be replaced by the squarebox XD range, and the super premium models followed suit. But that story is for another time.

It was astonishing enough capturing an unrestored Landau on the road. Luckier still, I got it with headlights exposed and in use, even though it was still light enough to shoot. But for me the most amazing thing was the diminutive dame driving it. I can still picture her as she glided past; hat pulled down tightly, perched high in the cockpit and totally in control of her power-everythinged 351-engined beast. Ma’am, if you’re reading this, you have my deep admiration. I wish we could have had a chat.

My musical tastes match my taste in car shapes, insofar as sitting primarily between 1950 and 1980. But there’s an essential difference between these two life-affirming art forms for me. If I hear something on the radio from my favourite period that I don’t like, say Meatloaf, I switch it off. For me, hearing music I hate is like fingernails down a chalkboard. Can’t stand it.

With cars, I’m more inclined to sustain my gaze on a shape that doesn’t appeal to me. Like the Camargue for example.

In 1975, the Pininfarina-shaped Rolls-Royce Camargue was released to the market. It was 25% more expensive than the Rolls-Royce Corniche two-door and almost twice that of the Silver Shadow four-door.

Why anyone would pay that premium for this lump of meatloaf is beyond me.

Word was, the Camargue was the unhappy result of the switch from metric to imperial. Italian body shape prepared for English carmaker. But that was just the classic car mags having a dig.

It has a DNA inextricably linked to the Fiat 130 Coupe, having been conceived mere moments before that ageless classic. You couldn’t get more varied results from the same principles.

The Fiat 130 Coupe was born on my drawing board at that moment, and not to waste time I used the Rolls-Royce frame. So from a standing position I was drawing the 130 and sitting down I started the difficult Camargue.

This distended and twice-translated-but-never-nailed quote from Paolo Martin has always vexed me. I found it online and it needs its preceding sentences.

My impression is that he didn’t come to the Fiat shape – a brief he had been working on for a while – until he had received the Rolls-Royce brief. Up till then his Fiat had been something more cokebottle, so the Camargue brief must have prompted him to think of squarer lines for the large coupe.

I’d posit the above drawings sit at two moments of time. The top set Martin’s first thoughts, done in concert with the Fiat versions (which I can’t find).

The renderings under the white line might have come just after the first set, or a little while later. They show the car already moving away from its original and breathtaking thing.

The major difference between these two sets appears to be the placement of the front wheel.

In order to appreciate my point of view, you have to ascribe to the theory that the Fiat 130 is one of the highlights of automotive styling from any period. I’ve tried to express that in more depth here.

If you don’t hold that opinion, it’s hard to appreciate what Paolo Martin was staring at when he first put this shape to paper. I think he knew from that second he had conceived a masterpiece. In his mind he had imagined a low and wide coupe with flat surfacing and razor-sharp edges.

Nothing new there, but more significantly he had figured out a magic proportion for the volumes.

Paolo Martin was a rising talent within Pininfarina. he had joined a few years earlier, and had been involved with bringing Leonardo Fioravanti’s aerodynamica saloons to fruition. When the Rolls-Royce brief landed, he was also on the cusp of another masterpiece – the Modulo, which has his attention above (centre).

Just after he had been given the Camargue, Martin’s Mercedes-Benz 6.3 was displayed at the London Motor Show. I wonder whether anyone at Rolls-Royce started to have misgivings

His Bentley T was built by Pininfarina in 1968 for an individual hoping to convince Rolls-Royce to do a new Continental. It is nicer than the Camargue and should have been followed more closely. That might have been just a bit too indiscreet given Rolls-Royce decided to take this individual’s idea of a bespoke Pininfarina coupe and do it for themselves.

With the second set of drawings we can see Martin moving away from the original conception. It’s as if he consulted his brief after his initial moment of inspiration, and then started to refine it along those difficult parameters (the cowl had to be so high, etc.)

The front wheels have been sent forward, with axle-to-grille now shorter than axle-to-windscreen. And that makes a lot of the difference for the dynamism of the profile.

While the profile drawing has less frontal overhang than the 3/4s, it still has more than the final product.

But that magic proportional relationship is lost.

In the flesh, the production Camargue profile is one of the its most disappointing features. For some reason it reminds me of the Zephyr Mk3 in the rear flanks.

The front that really gets me. It looks like a mouth-breather.

Two fatal decisions – fattening, then deepening the grille; and setting the headlights outboard. The Silver Shadow had so perfectly continued the S3 Cloud’s quadlamp face, Crucial to this was that the twinset cluster hug the grille, with outboard turning signals setting the flank.

The Camargue got a fat grille from day one. Deepening it just made it worse. But the headlights are even more fatal. You can’t bring them closer to the grille because then they leave the bland outer corner exposed. The body spacing between grille and lights just makes the face look simple; wide-eyed.

The Camargue came to Rolls-Royce in a bit of a vacuum.

In 1969, chief stylist John Blatchley retired after 24 years as the primary hand on Rolls-Royce and Bentley motor car shapes. For much of that time, he’d worked in concert with Managing Director Dr Frederick Llewellyn-Smith and Chief Engineer Harry Grylls for the company’s vision and execution. He was the last of the three to leave.

That same year the Camargue was commissioned from Pininfarina; the reason for his leaving or the result of his absence?

Pininfarina had not worked with Rolls-Royce on a series production car before. They had done a number of private commissions on a Crewe chassis – one of which was seriously considered as the body for the 1952 Continental – and had also designed and built the prototypes for Jean Daninos’ Cresta series out of France.

Now in the hands of Renzo Carli and Sergio Pininfarina, the business continued to be the premier carrozzeria in the world. Bertone may have eclipsed them at the cutting edge lately, but the firm started by Battista Pinin Farina was still the benchmark across the industry for their capacity to manufacture as well as style.

They built the first Camargue prototype themselves to their own expectations.

The Pininfarina Catalogue states this in its Camargue entry;

Pininfarina was given utmost freedom of expression, provided the traditional characteristics of the Rolls-Royce products were maintained.

Derek Meddings had been given carte blanche to shape the Thunderbird’s Rolls-Royce; FAB 1. He needed to submit drawings for approval, and their only requirement was that the car never be referred to as a ‘Rolls’; always ‘Rolls-Royce’. Rolls-Royce even created a full-sized version of the FAB 1 grille so the production company could use it for closeups.

Sometime between the Fiat’s 1971 launch and the Camargue’s in 1975, the Rolls-Royce Board of Directors assembled at the helipad located within the company’s sporting fields. They were there to compare the Fiat 130 Coupe with their upcoming model.

If anyone there was seeing the emperor’s nipples, no-one did anything about it. They had more pressing issues at hand, such as an aircraft division with a whopping financial liability.

Rolls-Royce longtimer Fritz Feller eventually replaced John Blatchley. Curiously, he was an accomplished engineer worthy of mention in New Scientist magazine but he had not held a styling job before he took over the department at Rolls-Royce.

Feller considered the Bentley version’s face for his upcoming Silver Spirit generation, but that came to naught.

On the Camargue, it came to one – a single customer who requested a Bentley grille instead of a Rolls-Royce one.

Feller also tried showing Pininfarina how to improve one of their shapes. Not the sort of thing they were used to.

His suggestion to go rectangular with the headlights was met with much operatic hair-pulling. Sergio exclaimed he would ‘travel through rain and fog to be with his child’ if there was anything wrong with it.

Coachbuilder Hooper tried body-colour behind the headlights, and made the face look even more vacant.

On the other hand, the rear light strip from their Beau Rivage – a marked improvement.

What it should have sounded like.

William Towns’ 1976 Lagonda is as derided as the Camargue, but unfairly so. Here is a far more melodic symphony of prestige origami, a four-door sedan that exudes everything the two-door Camargue aspires to.

Not perfect; but exotic, dynamic, razor sharp and very finely crafted.

I’ve been seeing both the black and white Camargues for years now.

But in writing this piece, I discovered I’ve been looking at two different white ones. I’ve captured these with overlapping dates so I know its not just the refurbed same car. The one at the top has the chromework underneath the door glass, and it also has the side markers at the rear of the car.

You can see on the lower car that the body was actually contoured to meet the chrome, and the indent is still visible. This chrome was removed from post 1979 cars, and the front headlights earned wipers at the same time.

Thing is, neither the lower white car or the black one have the wiper washers, which leads me to believe these are earlier mdoels with the chrome removed.

John H managed to capture another local example in the same vein. No wipers, and no chrome trim.

He too has captured the black one, and writes up an excellent account of the car here including its numerous variants.

I wonder if my response to this car is merely the jealous mutterings of a churl, drowning amidst its abundance of prestige and pulchritude.

Nope. You can make this car more dynamic, but only through the lens. My eyes and brain and heart just don’t see it like this, no matter how much I want it to be.

If you want a masterclass in how to treat a Rolls-Royce in the 1970s, look no further than the Frua Phantoms.

First the elephant in the room. The car is an elephant. Constructed over the leviathan Phantom limousine chassis, the two examples built were oversized in every dimension. But their scale obscures their styling supremacy.

As Paolo Martin had also considered, the headlights are rectangular units. Crucially they hug the grille, and also define the outer edge. The grille itself – narrow but deep. Killer move.

Don’t believe me?

This is a Rolls-Royce mockup for a 1980s budget model.

That face is pure Frua Phantom, except for the addition of the 72 Galaxie bar through the grille. And it is a very pleasing facade – much, much nicer than the car that replaced the Shadow let alone the Camargue.

Perhaps when you see a 7/8 of the Frua’s profile you’ll get my picture.

That’s the sort of Rolls-Royce shape worth the 25% markup over a Corniche.

But still. I know how to enjoy a Camargue. Its most pleasing aspect is rear three-quarters from above. The angles, surfaces and volumes work here; nothing is awkward as it is up front.

So I am fortunate enough to capture a glimpse of this ungainly beast every now and then.

And occasionally I might get a sense of what could have been.

But what I really want to be hearing is this.

…

The Camargues of Melbourne on Curbside Classic

CC by John H

Capsule by Perry Shoar

…

Yesterday’s piece on the Camargue garnered a lot of query around a prototype Rolls-Royce it featured. It was hardly familiar to me as well, so I did a bit of digging. This is the SX, an in-house proposal for a downsized sedan prepared in the early 1980s.

In 1980, the SZ cars were released to market as the Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit and Bentley Mulsanne. They were more massive and indelicate than their predecessors, but suited the times and were well received by the company’s clientele.

But the company now sat in the midst of a new type of economy; fuel prices and inflation.

A smaller model had been on and off the cards since the war. Blatchley’s Bentley Junior drew much from Evernden’s pre-war French-market Corniche in the face. In the early 1960s, desperation set in and a number of projects were commenced of cars based on BMC products. Thankfully, none were proceeded with and only the Vanden Plas 4 litre slipped through.

With a reduced-dimension package drawn up for project SX, Rolls-Royce consulted with stylists Tom Karen and Giorgetto Giugiaro in 1981.

Tom Karen was head at Ogle. They had designed the Reliant Scimitar in all its guises including the original Daimler SX250 version. Their Triplex estate so pleased Prince Phillip, he acquired it for himself.

I’m not sure what Karen presented to Rolls-Royce. These two renderings are from two different sources, both of which say they came from the mid 1970s. But they look more 1980s to me, and could well be his work for the SX.

Nor can I find the Giugiaro proposal. But the brief came in just after his Lancia-based Medusa. This car was a bit of a watershed for him in that it set a new curvature language for him after a lengthy spell in origami.

He had submitted work to Jaguar in the mid 1970s for their XJ replacement. The one on left more conventional, the one on the right a sneakily regrilled Maserati Medici II. The prestige Medici influenced the greenhouse of the Medusa, but I doubt his SX for Rolls-Royce had a fastback.

Graham Hull, stylist at Rolls-Royce, described Giugiaro’s proposal as ‘Lancia meets enlarged Volvo 340’. Sounds like he was looking at the one on the left.

The Giugiaro version was built by Rolls-Royce in quarter-scale. It was met with silence from the board.

An in-house version emerged, styled by Graham Hull. This one was taken to full-size and shown at the sports field against the European competition.

Seeing it lifesize brought a reality check.

The only dimension I have is length; SX – 16.16’; SZ – 17.3’. With the SZ being 6.2′ (74.4″) wide, I estimate the SZ here to be about 5.6′ (67″) across.

The board asked for 6 extra inches of length, 4 of cabin interior and only 1 extra inch of width. It never happened. The whole project withered in the face of the SZ’s success.

I couldn’t find any profile shots but the shape looks square-rigged all over.

The rear is a great disappointment.

I think the front nailed it, though.

The angle I used gives it some forward cant in the face-plane which helps. The detail may be missing, but the arrangement of the shapes comes straight from the green Frua Phantom.

And when you stretch the SX slightly, it looks even nicer.

In 1982 Graham Hull asked his boss Fritz Feller whether he might be able to borrow his car. Feller was driving an Audi 100 CD which the company had bought for appraisal. Hull put a plywood mock-up of a Rolls-Royce grille on it and stuck it in a wind tunnel.

It achieved a Cd.32 against the Audi’s original Cd.30. hehehe

…

This account is drawn from the book 

Inside the Rolls-Royce & Bentley Styling Department 1971 to 2001

by Graham Hull

…

It’s crept up on us this year. October 12-14. We’re meeting up Friday morning then having lunch in Lygon Street. This year they’re featuring The Last Days of the American Supercar. Looks like its going to show this blue Superbird AVL caught in Melbourne’s backstreets.

The main theme appears to be an Art Deco one. There’s also Cadillacs, microcars, Harley Panhead and Triumph Bonneville, and 90 years of the Australian Grand Prix.

I’m meeting John H in front of the ticket booth at 10am Friday morning. If you’re joining us, I’ll be in my usual blue all over. If everyone happens to be rocking the denim tuxedo, I’ll be the guy with the red Converse sneakers.

At 1pm, we’re catching up with a few others for lunch here. If you miss us inside, see you there.