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Huge, un-fendered wheels. A long, thin nose. Wings at both ends. A single-seat cockpit backed by a prominent intake snorkel. Bulbous side pods.

On paper, the ingredients of a typical Formula 1 racer don’t exactly sound like a recipe for aesthetic success. That said, the sport has always been an extremely high-profile showcase for an automaker’s technical prowess (or lack thereof), so it’s understandable some would attempt to cash in, as it were, on their team’s on-track achievements by incorporating F1 car styling details in their road cars.

Enzo Ferrari. With the 2002-2004 Enzo Ferrari (shown at top), the Modena automaker was perhaps the first to do so overtly. The design cues are obvious, from the side pod-suggesting rear fenders to the anteater-ish nose and prominent front-end aerodynamics. The car was conceived as its manufacturer’s F1 team was in the midst of an unrivaled success streak, notching five driver’s World Championships in as many years from 2000 to 2005, so it’s understandable they would seek to showcase their domination. Whether the car actually works aesthetically is another story, but it’s at least noteworthy.

Mercedes SLR McLaren. This one’s a bit more of a mishmash of influences. Still, the F1 connection is strong with the 2003-2008 SLR McLaren, as evidenced by the long, thin nose motif running down the hood and the quasi-winged valence. To all that, Mercedes added touches of their classic 300SL Gullwing racer along with then-current Merc themes like the double ovoid headlights. If the car’s styling looks ambiguous, there’s probably a reason it was replaced in short order by the much more single-minded SLS AMG in 2010.

Caparo T1. No ambiguity here. The high-strung, 2008-present T1 is an unabashed homage to Formula 1 shapes and engineering. A 1,000-lb car with a 575-hp, 3.5l V8 nestled amidships, its power-to-weight ratio approaches that of an F1 racer as well. If the design gets points, they’ll undoubtedly come from the pre-teenage boy crowd, who spend their study hours drawing such shapes on their notebook paper. Stunning in the purity of its interpretation of an F1 look, but of questionable utility in the “real world.”

With respect to what it set out to do—secure a 24 Hours of Le Mans victory for manufacturer Toyota—the GT-One was a miserable failure. Aesthetically, however, it’s a fascinating car, especially from a Japanese outfit.

Purpose-built to conquer Le Mans, the GT-One nestled into the then-top-tier GT1 class in ’98, and the GTP class in ’99, the shift necessitated by a regulation change that required more roadgoing examples built in order to homologate a car for the highest-level class, an effort Toyota was unwilling to put forth. Although its twin-turbo 3.6l V8 and Dallara-developed chassis gave the GT-One a competitive turn of speed, it was let down by mechanical failures, tire disintegrations and just plain bad luck (read: collisions initiated by other racers). Even with the enormous resources of the Japanese giant, the car could finish no better than 25 laps back of the winning Porsche 911 GT1 in ’98. It did manage to hold on to second place overall in ’99, but that achievement was tempered by the fact that it was running in a class by itself, the other race cars having to abide by slightly more stringent rules.

In spite of its lack of success around the Circuit de la Sarthe, I’m fascinated by, if not necessarily drawn to, its looks. Perhaps the most arresting aspect of its lines are their utter organic-ness. To generalize, even when incorporating sweeping, curved shapes, Japanese-sourced styling isn’t known for being the most romantic, as it were. But on a race car, no less, where form should be fully subservient to function, the GT-One’s shape looks downright fanciful. Examine the gothic curve of the nose cone, check out the insectoid headlight clusters and the rippling expanse of bodywork aft of the cockpit, terminating in a full-width ducktail and baroque spoiler. Looking so much like an idle concept exercise, I couldn’t believe Toyota had actually raced one “in anger” when I first beheld it (admittedly, in the video game Gran Turismo 2). They deserve recognition for creating a car so distinctive, if not successful.

Editor’s note: This post is part of a series examining the aesthetic merits of cars designed almost wholly with function in mind. Read the other installments here:

• Ford GT40
• Ferrari 412T

Would a Neanderthal drool over your pristine ’79 El Camino?

In other words, do cars hold an intrinsic aesthetic appeal, or are they simply good-looking compared to other cars?

Imagine you’re a denizen of, say, the mid-1800s. You’ve obviously never seen a car before, and via the wonders of time travel, the Aston Martin DB9 pictured above appears in front of you. After overcoming your initial shock and awe, you pause for a moment to contemplate its aesthetic merit. Knowing nothing about its modus operandi, would you consider it an attractive shape? Or does an otherwise pleasing form like the DB9’s require a sort of “automotive context” in order to be deemed beautiful?

See, I believe humans are hard-wired with certain aesthetic predispositions. Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder—but within a limited range. After all, almost everyone considers a vibrant sunset, a sleek and stately race horse, the starry night sky or a balletic hummingbird beautiful. And within the confines of our respective genders (with some exceptions), men are drawn to an attractive female shape, and vice versa. Those predispositions transcend personality; even someone with absolutely no visual taste in any other arena can recognize basic beauty when they see it.

Technology can be beautiful. Consider the Golden Gate Bridge, the Taj Mahal or Concorde: Someone calling any one of those unattractive would be far and away the exception rather than the rule, no matter their preferences in other areas or cultural biases.

But cars? A common thread between the examples of beautiful technology listed above is that their method of working informs their shape. When considering a car, though, there’s no innate indication as to what makes it go; from where it derives its motivation. Put another way, when looking at one, it’s distressingly easy to suppress learned knowledge of what propels it and simply see it as a metal box with four wheels. A visitor from an earlier time, without having lived in modern society and having no prejudices or prior knowledge of cars, would behold one exactly that way—something impossible for the other examples of beautiful technology listed above. To our transplant from the 1800s, the form of the Golden Gate Bridge dovetails perfectly with its function, the Taj Mahal communicates majesty in and of itself, and Concorde positively radiates “fast, winged flight.” They don’t require a context; they stand alone.

So as much as it pains me to postulate it, I believe automotive aesthetic appeal falls into the relative category. The shapes we admire so much, like the DB9’s, aren’t timeless, as much as they stand out from their peers in the present and immediate future.

As a designer, I’d like to think that my designs don’t stand or fall depending on whether or not a certain design element is present. Especially given that engineers have to comb over the design and alter it so that it’s able to actually be manufactured economically, it’s wise to not cling too tightly to any one particular element.

Unfortunately, many automakers all too often anchor their designs too firmly in a particular styling detail (the BMW E38’s rocker panels, for example), and frequently it happens to be one that isn’t integrated with the car’s proportions or worse, removable. The cars featured in this post fall into the latter category, and the absence of their factory-designed spoilers, or rear wings, completely compromises their styling integrity.

’93-’98 Toyota Supra: Notwithstanding its legendary status in the import tuner scene, this car’s styling was never warmly received by the automotive press at large. One publication aptly described it as a “pastiche of styling cues from other, more coherent cars.” And with its dramatic spoiler removed, the flaws in the Mark 4 Supra’s proportions stand out all the more.

Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution: Here’s an instance where a vehicle needs its spoiler not only for visual balance, but also to reinforce its “rally-ready” image. The Evo and archrival Subaru WRX STI wouldn’t be what they are without a liberal sprinkling of scoops, fins and wings. Bereft of its spoiler, the Evo’s econobox proportions scream.

Porsche 924: Credit Porsche for recognizing this problem, and tackling it head-on with the later 924 and 944, which were never, ever seen without their giant rubber spoilers. The early 924’s cool reception (owing mainly to its mixed Porsche/VW pedigree) was chilled even further by the car’s unfinished-looking, egg-like rump.

Mazda MX-6: With its fetching teardrop proportions, Mazda’s second-generation MX-6 is undoubtedly one of the loveliest cars of the mid-’90s era. All the more tragic, then, to witness a spoiler-less example, with its awkward profile. A winged MX-6 is such a study in taste and automotive grace that even a step away from that peak of design is a steep drop, visually-speaking.

The more things change…

The Viper has returned after a two-year hiatus, this time bearing an SRT badge instead of the old Dodge one, and with more power than ever, but design-wise, one could be forgiven for thinking they were in a kind of time-warp while beholding it.

Packing 640 hp from its signature 8.4l pushrod V10, the car’s developers insist a primary goal was to civilize the car, making it more livable and accessible while preserving its rawness and character, and I’ve no doubt they’ve made great strides in that direction. When considering its competition—the Corvette ZR1, Shelby GT500, various Ferraris and Porsches—its horsepower figure seems barely adequate; it was certainly easier top the supercar mountain when the original 400-hp Viper first exploded onto the scene in all its irreverent glory in the early ’90s. Brute power isn’t enough anymore, so there was little else for the engineers to do except make it more docile.

That being the case, the chassis engineers seem to have charged the stylists with carrying the torch of the Viper’s innate essence. To accomplish this, the designers basically pretended that the previous generation ’03-’10 car never existed and penned a surprisingly cursory update of the original ’96-’02 Viper GTS coupe. Where the ’03-’10 car’s waistline was relatively undramatic, the new car’s flanks plunge in the manner of the original’s. The double-bubble roof and ducktail spoiler have even returned.

And as much as I’d like to criticize Chrysler for designing something so derivative of one of their previous products, I just can’t. See, the original Viper GTS coupe is hands-down one of the best looking American cars ever. It’s extroverted, yes, but all the lines resolve perfectly, whether on the front end, the side or at the rear. It’s a flamboyant, yet cohesive shape, and the new Viper’s stylists were right to recognize near-perfection when they saw it, and try to emulate it. It’s not like it’ll ever be mistaken for anything else.

Nissan’s refresh of the Murano between its 1st and 2nd generation is the design equivalent of taking away with your right hand what you add with your left.

Granted, the Murano hasn’t exactly been a flop, sales-wise. I do see a fair number of them on the road, and the car remains a stable part of Nissan’s lineup. But it still represents a classic case of how to improve styling in one area while ruining it in another.

What am I referring to? The front and rear of the car. Examine the pictures above. The top two depict the newer, 2nd generation, ’09+ car, and the bottom two show the original, ’02-’07 vehicle. What Nissan did, essentially, is vastly improve the look of the car’s nose while designing away all the personality of the rear. Lest you think I’m splitting hairs, keep an eye out for examples of each car on the road; the impression is even stronger in person than in pictures.

The 1st generation Murano’s front end cleaved to Nissan’s corporate styling philosophy of the time—it’s sharp, angular, geometric and altogether awkward. The ’09+ car’s fascia, by contrast, is much more cohesive and handsome, as if they had taken the original, given it a shave and a facelift and managed to make it more striking at the same time. Well done there.

But…Nissan went the opposite direction with the Murano’s rear. The ’02-’07 car’s taillights and rump were arguably the most successful area of the car, styling-wise. Significantly, they were distinctive—you could pick them out in a badge-less lineup of mid-size crossovers—and they integrated with the car’s overall lines in the way they flowed up and over the rear wheel arches. But with the 2nd generation Murano, all that character and context is gone; the taillights look arbitrarily placed, and like they could pull double-duty on any econobox further down in Nissan’s lineup.

One step forward, one step back for the Murano. It’s a shame when designers don’t recognize where they’ve gone right and preserve, or at least minimally update, those styling elements.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series wherein I discuss unsuccessful cars whose styling was their overlooked (or denied) Achilles heel. Read the other installments here:

• BMW 5-Series Gran Turismo
• ’04-’06 Pontiac GTO
• Chevy SSR
• Chyrsler Cirrus
• Chyrsler 300M
• Mercedes-Benz R-Class
• Third-generation Ford Taurus

It’s ironic the new Infiniti Emerg-E is called a concept car. After all, a concept is supposed to showcase new engineering solutions or styling directions for an automaker, and the Emerg-E offers absolutely nothing original on either front.

First, the design. For an easy Emerg-E recipe, take one part Jaguar C-X75 concept car, a dash of Lexus LF-LC grille, and a soupcon of new Acura NSX proportions. Maybe tweak a line or two here or there, slap an Infiniti badge on the nose, and voilà: Your Emerg-E. It’s actually quite amazing the Japanese automaker didn’t anticipate design critics in the industry immediately perceiving the similarities, especially since the three cars listed have all been released fairly recently, and are thus fresh in everyone’s memory. The whole affair reinforces a perception Infiniti have created for themselves over their twenty-plus years of existence: That of a car company in a perpetual state of catching up, of nipping at the heels of their competition, cribbing their ideas where necessary but unable to put forth anything truly original on their own. Design-wise, Infiniti’s new concept does absolutely nothing to dispel that notion, and I’m surprised more automotive news outlet aren’t calling them on it besides little comments here and there, such as, “[T]he nose looks a bit long, and incongruously, it seems to offer a riff on the spindle grille that Lexus is rolling out portfolio-wide” from Autoblog article linked to above. C’mon, guys. This kind of photocopied styling is going to continue until a design gets truly and deservedly panned. I hope I’m not alone in this.

Under the skin, the copycatting continues. An oh-so-trendy pair of 200 hp electric motors deliver power to the rear wheels, batteries recharged by a 1.2l gasoline engine, much like the system in the Chevy Volt. I suppose Infiniti really didn’t have any original ideas here either, since every new shiny vehicular object on a rotating pedestal has been powered by a collection of electric motors for several years now.

I want to like Infiniti; I really do. They were kind of awesome once, with their “Japanese BMW” ambitions, but somewhere along the line they lost a creative spark. And if they’re ever really going to experience a breakthrough in the marketplace, they’re going to have to recover it and put forth something truly groundbreaking and visionary. The Emerg-E concept isn’t it.

A discussion of the Subaru Impreza could have fit into a couple categories: The one it’s featured under, Underrated Lookers; or another one, Sophomore Slumps. The grounds for its inclusion under the latter would been the atrocious, bug-eyed styling visited upon the second-generation car; however, apart from its looks, the 2nd gen is actually a brilliant machine: relatively lightweight, tossable, simple, rugged and easy to tune for power. It certainly isn’t slumping as far as its dynamics. So, by process of elimination, the first-generation ’93-’01 Impreza slots into the category you see; and I might add, one that it fits very well.

It’s one of Subaru’s most cohesive designs. Even with the addition in later years of rally-racing-themed scoops, vents, spoilers and lighting, the basic shape still looks understated, handsome and capable. Chiefly responsible for the ’93-’01 Impreza’s visual impact are its simple-yet-aggressive grille treatment, its athletic stance and especially its subtly-flared fenders, which give the car an ever-so-slight waisted look. The effect emphasizes Subaru’s characteristic AWD system and the fact that tractive power can be transmitted through the tires’ contact patches at all four corners. The fender flares also make the car look lithe, agile, nimble and playful. It’s a car that invites a drive, in other words.

Even the four-door form looks fresh, as the automaker wisely decided to retain all the key styling features from the coupe version. Both body styles shared all underpinnings, in the same way that BMW 3 Series coupes and sedans are mechanically identical, and to this day I (and most enthusiasts) lament the fact that Subaru declined to market the very fast, turbocharged variants of the Impreza—the WRX and WRX STI—in North America (the rest of the world got them). No, we had to make do with a naturally-aspirated, 165-hp 2.5l flat-4 and wait until the arrival of the 2nd generation car for forced induction and real speed. So we American enthusiasts are placed in the awkward position of having to decide between looks (1st gen) or factory speed (2nd gen). Unless, that is, one was willing to undertake an engine swap and combine the best of both, which in this case might be the way to go for the Subaru buff who wants to construct a modern classic.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series featuring cars whose design I find appealing, in contrast to mainstream opinion. Read the other installments here:

• ’89-’91 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Coupe
• ’99-’04 Toyota Solara Coupe
• Mazda CX-7
• ’93-’01 Subaru Impreza
• ’96-’98 Chrysler Sebring Convertible
• ’86-’91 Mazda RX-7
• ’92-’97 Cadillac Seville STS
• ’95-’96 Nissan 240SX
• ’87-’88 Ford Thunderbird
• ’94-’97 Lexus LS400
• Subaru SVX
• ’03-’04 Infiniti M45

Okay, as a designer, I can’t not discuss this one.

That name, too… If only it had one of these so I could tell people I drove a Disco Volante with a Laycock de Normanville overdrive, my life would be complete.

But I digress.

Technically, the new car isn’t a real Alfa Romeo, owing to the fact that the Italian automaker didn’t actually design the car (design consultancy Carrozzeria Touring Superleggera did), but simply donated the foundation in the form of the chassis from their sadly limited-run 8C Competizione, including that car’s 444-hp, 4.7l V8 engine. So the Disco Volante is more than just a pretty face—it can move and groove.

When it comes to the styling, Alfa has no shortage of jaw-droppingly gorgeous cars from which to draw inspiration. For their latest effort, though, Carrozzeria decided to pay homage to perhaps the quirkiest of the legendary racing Alfas: The 1900 C52, affectionately known as the original Disco Volante, or flying saucer. The Jalopnik article links to this page featuring photos and a description of the original; do yourself a favor and visit the page just to soak in the fascinatingly rounded body.

So, on the one hand, it’s a shameless ripoff of the original; on the other hand, the original was so otherworldly-looking (literally!) that any homage can’t help but look fresh amid the modern-day crop of bland and stale automotive shapes. I particularly love details like the way the beltline extends through the front wheel arches, and the classically-Alfa-like resolution of lines in the rear into a sort of boattail. In a weird way, especially given its quasi-supercar underpinnings, it fits in perfectly with the recent rash of “re-engineered classics” like the Singer Porsche and Eagle Speedster, despite the fact that the Disco Volante’s bodywork is bespoke and the others are more directly lifted from their forebears. And if this latest Alfa is a typical example of the trend of fusing old-school style with modern running gear, I hope the fad continues.