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In anticipation of the upcoming Bond film Skyfall, Top Gear has put together a fantastic retrospective of the history of James Bond’s wheeled vehicles, from Dr. No to the present day. Presented by Richard Hammond, the program covers a variety of topics, from Bond’s traditional association with Aston Martin, to the famous spiral stunt in The Man with the Golden Gun, through the “low point of Bond cars” when the British superspy drove BMWs for three installments, and on to the current Daniel Craig films.

The program also dovetails nicely with my previous post on the early Lotus Esprit, as it was a Bond car for two movies and transformed into a submarine for one. That last bit of trickery was depicted using models in the film, but for the show Hammond has an actual real-life Lotus reconfigured into a submarine, and tests it in a reservoir to examine whether that particular bit of Bond lore could really happen. Well worth watching if you have an hour to spare.

I have a great deal of affection for the pre-Peter Stevens Lotus Esprit, in other words, for original ’76-’86 car.

Why do I love it so much? In a nutshell, it’s the unconventional ’80s supercar. In contrast to rivals like the Lamborghini Countach or the Ferrari Testarossa that followed the classic “more is more” big engine supercar formula, the Esprit adhered to the traditional Lotus mantra of performance through light weight. It was powered by a comparatively small 2 (later 2.2) liter 4-cylinder engine, offered in both turbocharged and naturally-aspirated flavors. Horsepower ranged from 140 in the earliest US-spec Series 1 (S1) model to 215 in the 1986 Series 3 (S3) Turbo HC Esprit—on paper, nothing to strike fear in the hearts of its Italian competition, but as mentioned above, the Esprit’s light weight of around 2,400 lbs was its trump card, giving it sparkling performance on par with its rivals. 60 mph came and went in less than 5 seconds for the S3 Turbo HC, and the car’s low mass benefited handling and braking as well, making the Esprit a force to be reckoned with.

I’m drawn to the early Esprit from a styling perspective as well. In contrast to the softened, rounded post-1986 Peter Stevens redesign, the first three series preserved legendary Italian stylist Giorgetto Giugiaro’s severe, uncompromising wedge shape. There’s an uncluttered simplicity to its lines that brings the perfect proportions to the fore, and the 1976-1986 Esprit just looks like a purer expression of the designer’s original intent, even if Giugiaro did admit to being a fan of the later two designers’ refreshes. The car’s lines also contrast with those of its more flamboyant rivals, and ensured the Esprit a lower level of desirability than a Countach or a Testarossa in a decade like the ’80s of conspicuous consumption. If it hadn’t starred in two James Bond films (Roger Moore’s The Spy Who Loved Me and For Your Eyes Only) it’s doubtful the Esprit would have risen out of enthusiast niche obscurity.

Naturally, as with almost all British cars of the era, there are some maddening problems, or charming quirks, depending on your perspective (and patience levels). The infamous British firm Lucas was responsible for the Esprit’s electrics, with all the (un)reliability that implies. Lotus went through several uneven financial periods during the car’s model run, and used a smattering of old and freshly engineered parts depending on the money available at any given time to be dedicated to development. The transmission, initially sourced from Citroen, was always a weak point, and the interior design, in contrast to the sheetmetal, has aged rather poorly.

As long as an enthusiast owner isn’t expecting to daily-drive the Esprit, the downsides aren’t dealbreakers, and all in all any eventual owners can congratulate themselves on having shown their taste in cars by snagging an unsung hero of the supercar scene.

In the vein of my overanalytical dashboard preferences post a while back, here are a few car interior design features that generate immediate appeal for me:

Consoles that flow up and into the dash. Love it when I see this. The design emphasizes the longitudinal axis, and thus forward motion of the car, and in most cases brings down the cowl height, improving sightlines so that the corners of the car can been more readily seen and positioned by the driver. The interior just seems to flow forward with the car. Example cars: Audi 5000, Nissan Maxima, Z32 Nissan 300ZX, Acura NSX (shown above).

As much instrumentation as possible. Within reason, you can never have too much information about your car’s state at your fingertips. For non-modified cars, I’d like the gauges to be incorporated into the dash design—no pods or extraneous bumps, please—but for cars with aftermarket bits, almost anything goes. I think I’m also drawn to the “comfort factor” of having all these little electronic sentinels reporting back to me. And beyond that, I do believe I harbor secret fantasies of flying a Boeing 747 or the Millenium Falcon, and additional instrumentation brings me one step closer to being on the bridge of either. Example cars: Mark 3 Toyota Supra, Porsche 911, FC Mazda RX-7 (shown above).

A proper 3-spoke steering wheel. Always a good choice. The three spokes converging in the middle remind me of target crosshairs and the vertical bottom spoke combine to create a visual reference as to the position of the wheel, and emphasize the quality and accuracy of the steering. Example cars: BMW E30 325i, Mazda RX-8, Audi B5 S4 (shown above).

The Napier Nomad is unquestionably an incredibly complex piece of engineering. Whether it qualifies as brilliant or completely overwrought is more arguable.

Fresh off the success of the Sabre, most notably the powerplant for the V1 buzz bomb killer Hawker Tempest, Napier embarked on another ambitious engine development program, one that eventually led to the Nomad. First tested in 1949, the Nomad was Napier’s attempt to leverage their piston engine mastery and introduce a fuel-efficient alternative to the then-new jet engine technology.

At least with respect to the company’s goals of creating an economical engine, the Nomad succeeded. To this day, it remains one of the most efficient piston engines ever made when examined from the standpoint of specific fuel consumption, or fuel consumed per unit of power produced. That said, such economy came at a price: An almost Rube Goldberg-like level of complexity. At its core, the Nomad was a 41-liter, valveless, 2-stroke, horizontally-opposed 12-cylinder diesel engine. Around this, Napier added an array of combustion chambers, valves, couplings, clutches, turbines and compressors designed to capture every last bit of exhaust energy in service of turning the twin contra-rotating propellers bolted to the nose of the engine.

When it worked, it worked: Mounted in the nose of an Avro Shackleton testbed aircraft, the Nomad produced 3,000 hp with exceptionally low fuel consumption for its day. It’s a tribute to Napier’s expertise and persistence that they managed to get all its parts working harmoniously for 1,000 hours of testing.

Unfortunately, the Nomad, like other incredibly sophisticated piston engines of the day, was simply overtaken by progress—new jet engine technology promised much higher speeds with an exponentially lower level of engine complexity, and as for fuel consumption, it was farther down on most customers’ lists of priorities; the lean days of the early ’70s were still over 20 years away. The Nomad found no takers, and fell into obscurity.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series examining unique and significant powerplants. Read the other installments here:

• Saab Variable Compression Engine
• Rolls-Royce Goshawk
• Mercedes-Ilmor 500I
• Mazda R26B
• Pratt & Whitney R-4360

Stories like this are why I drag my kids to car shows.

Well, I like the cars too, but I continue to hold out the hope that one or both with take the torch of my car interest, so to speak, and run with it the way 14-year-old Kathryn DiMario has in the clip above.

When she was 12, Kathryn approached her parents with an idea: She would take all her saved babysitting money and purchase a project car to fix up and learn on before she was able to legally drive. Her parents, to their credit, agreed, and worked with her to locate a clapped-out Pontiac Fiero. They expected Kathryn’s interest to wane and the endeavor to peter out after a short time, but the girl persisted, and insisted on doing almost all the work herself, learning about the car’s mechanicals as well as upholstery, welding and other restoration techniques in the process.

Needless to say, if my son or daughter decide one day that they’d like to embark on such an adventure, I’ll have their back 100%. For a more detailed account of Kathryn’s project and to keep abreast of the latest updates, visit her project thread.

Via Left Lane and Autoblog, it appears a turbocharged version of the well-received Subaru BRZ sports coupe is under development. Concerning the engine, Left Lane reports:

The boxer engine will feature a single twin-scroll turbocharger to help reduce lag and a direct fuel injection system that Subaru is developing on its own. Thanks to these and other internal modifications, the flat-four will make up to 280 horsepower and 250 lb-ft. of torque, a big bump over the normally-aspirated BRZ’s 200 ponies and 151 lb-ft. of twist.

So, assuming a roughly 200-lb weight gain for the turbo, associated plumbing and drivetrain and suspension reinforcement, 280 hp in a 3,000-lb car is still a recipe for a mighty tasty power-to-weight ratio. If the stock car can sprint to 60 mph in the mid-6-second range, I’d estimate the mid/low 5s for the turbocharged variant.

The big question is whether Toyota/Subaru can retain the car’s delightful balance and sublime driving qualities in spite of the numbing effect of additional power. We’ll have to wait on the road tests for the answer, but my hunch is they can, given that it’s “only” an 80-hp bump. And if the turbo BRZ ventures too far into pony car territory, we’ll always have the excellent naturally-aspirated variant to fall back on.

Editor’s note: The image above does not depict the upcoming turbo Subaru BRZ’s engine, but the force-fed flat-4 under the hood of the automaker’s WRX STI high-performance sedan.

Let’s cut to the chase: I love the BMW E9 coupe’s proportions, but I hate much of the detailing.

As muscular as any contemporary Italian thoroughbred, the ’68-’75 BMW E9 coupe, encompassing the 2800 CS, 3.0CS, 3.0CSi and 3.0CSL is rightfully revered as one of its automaker’s classic models. Setting the precedent for generations of BMWs to follow, its expansive greenhouse, strong character lines and perfectly balanced visual masses became a kind of standard that subsequent Bavarian coupes and sedans would emulate. There’s a kind of unaffected, deliberate athleticism about its lines, and something powerful, Teutonic and also tasteful in its proportions. The window curves look dated (more on that in a minute) and somewhat fanciful, but the E9’s shape, taken as a whole, is a definitive statement on German coupe-ness. It knows exactly where each of its lines should be, and it’s confident in their placement.

Always one to favor proportions when it comes to design, I want to love the entirety of the E9’s styling, but the details trip me up. The three elements I take most issue with are the signature kidneys in the car’s fascia, the chrome beltline and the baroque curves of the rear glass corners. The kidneys in particular are far too tall and elongated; set them higher and integrate them better with the grilles and the E9’s nose would be much improved. The car’s waist is prominent enough without the additional splash of shiny stuff, and the backlight looks like a refugee from late ’50s American styling. It’s too bad the car’s excellent proportions are compromised by such a smattering of details.

As fastidious as the styling is in places, I certainly can’t fault the rest of the car. Blessed with a 2.8l-3.2l version of BMW’s legendary M30 SOHC straight six, the E9’s performance was sparkling and well-matched to its athletic looks. At first carbureted, and later (from the 3.0CSi on) fuel-injected, the M30 grew in power from 170 to an even 200 hp in the CSi. The front strut and rear semi-trailing arm suspension gave the 3,100 lb car sure-footed handling and the whole package possessed that well-oiled fluency characteristic of BMWs in general.

No, to drive one, then as now, showed tremendous taste and class on the part of the owner. While the E9’s details aren’t my cup of tea, its proportions and dynamics converge in a supremely capable package.

I sometimes wonder why the 1992-1994 Acura Vigor is FWD.

Just look at it. The front wheels are pushed to the front corners of the car in a characteristically RWD fashion. The engine is mounted longitudinally, not sideways, and the transmission is located behind the engine—again, like a RWD car. And the whole package has distinctly BMW 3-series proportions and overtones, mimicking the RWD sports sedan benchmark.

So again, tell me why the Vigor had to be FWD? Featuring a punchy 188-hp, 2.5l 5-cylinder engine, the aforementioned rear-mounted transmission sent power to the front wheels through a sports-car-like limited-slip differential, giving the car excellent handling in spite of its FWD nature. The engine orientation and gearbox location allowed the powerplant to be advantageously located farther rearward in the chassis, greatly benefiting weight distribution, which came in at a remarkable (for a FWD car) 60:40 front-to-rear. The whole setup is actually reminiscent of that of Saab’s first-generation 900, itself a FWD Champion. I’m no engineer, but it seems like it would have been simpler to stick a driveshaft out the back of the transmission, connect it to a diff and halfshafts out back and call it a day, rather than making the power do a U-turn and cluttering up the engine bay with the kit necessary to get said power to the front wheels. Who knows; perhaps it was a parts commonality issue? Honda didn’t produce a mass-market RWD car until the much-later S2000 roadster. They may have wanted to use much of what was in the parts bin, but the result, although excellent, suffered from a sort of halfhearted, middle-of-the-road sense of execution.

Positioned between Acura’s range-topping Legend and entry-level Integra, the short-lived Vigor was the automaker’s attempt to poach midsize executive car sales from Infiniti and Lexus in particular, going head-to-head with the latter’s successful ES300. Sadly, it didn’t accomplish its goal, the most common reasons cited being a smaller size and considerably firmer suspension tuning than its rival at Lexus, qualities lost on a typical American consumer.

As with so many aspects of the Japanese entry into the American luxury car market in the early ’90s, it’s a shame the Vigor wasn’t properly developed and pitched. In addition to its dynamic qualities and handsome styling, one look at the beautifully understated and driver-focused cockpit above makes it clear that it’s one FWD I wouldn’t mind rolling around in on a daily basis.

Editor’s note: This post is part of an ongoing series highlighting FWD cars I think highly of, in spite of my overwhelming RWD bias. Read the other installments here:

• Peugeot 205 GTI
• B4 Volkswagen Passat
• Lancia Fulvia Coupe
• Mazda Millenia
• Citroën SM
• Fiat Coupé
• ’91-’96 Infiniti G20
• ’91-’94 B13 Nissan Sentra SE-R
• ’88-’92 Mazda MX-6
• Audi Coupe GT
• Volkswagen Corrado
• Peugeot 405 Mi16
• ’78-’93 Saab 900
• Volvo 850 T-5R
• 5th-generation Honda Prelude
• 1st- and 2nd-generation Volkswagen Scirocco

I’ll say it: The American pushrod V8, and specifically the small-block Chevy (including its later incarnations, the Chevy LS- and LT-series) is the best all-around engine ever made. Period. The performance potential, the popular tuning expertise, the power-to-weight ratio of the latest iteration… Put it all together and you have the best engine ever. This position can be backed up by any number of car enthusiasts; venture to contest it and I’ll wager at least a half-dozen SBC buffs will produce numbers and stats reasserting its superiority.

This declaration may come as a mild surprise to some of you acquainted with my enthusiasm for imports and weird engine tech in general. But a clarification is in order: There’s more than one way to appreciate a powerplant, and the distinction to be made here rests on the difference between two of those ways: Respect and interest.

That said, do I respect the small-block Chevy V8 and its virtues? Absolutely. But does the engine actually interest me? Not in the least.

Put two vehicles side-by-side, say a Corvette Z06 with the factory performance catalog added and a Miata with a homebrew turbo system scavenged from various cars and run with a owner-programmed standalone EMS, and I’ll invariably be drawn to the latter. The Corvette may annihilate the Miata in every way, but how many times have the standard parts (cam, headers, etc) been added to an SBC in the pursuit of power? Yes, it may make a noise that amounts to catnip for most car buffs and spin the tires through third gear, and I have nothing but respect for that. It’s power and that’s always a draw. But let’s do something different. That’s where the interest lies.

I extend that lack of interest in the American pushrod V8 to swap projects involving the engine as well. There seems to be this especially virulent idea in many corners of the automotive world that dropping a pushrod V8 into any car will invariably make it better. Credit the late Carroll Shelby, perhaps, for the genesis of the notion; after all, he was the first to popularize it with his fusion of American muscle and British bodywork into the original Shelby Cobra. And to reiterate my earlier point: In most cases, I can’t argue the numbers—the V8 swap very often makes the resultant car more powerful, more reliable, cheaper to maintain and frequently even lighter and more economical. But is there anything more mind-numbingly boring than, say, a Jaguar XJ6 with an American pushrod V8 swap? Yes, it’s orders of magnitude more reliable, but the car’s distinctive character is gone, its engine note is completely out of sync with the car’s ethos and the whole idea is just so obvious that it loses all appeal.

Respect touches on those qualities I admire in a car: Power, handling and the like. Interest, on the other hand, has to do with qualities I’m drawn to in a scope wider than just the automotive realm: Innovation, creativity, new solutions to old problems that may at first be inferior to their elders but could potentially, with enough development, eclipse the traditional “best way” to do something.

I have a hunch more enthusiasts than just me view their automotive passion this way. If nothing else, maybe it will explain why a lot of car buffs persist in focusing on engine types and swap projects that seem inferior in so many ways to the tried-and-true-and-effective. It’s a matter of interest.