I know someone who’s been in the fashion biz most of her life. Her affinity with handsome male models is not surprising, yet her insistence–a “shush” sound accompanied by a finger on their lips–that the Eye Candy refrain from voicing their opinions definitely got me thinking. Perhaps beauty and critical thinking are two circles that rarely intersect in the Venn Diagram of life? True dat, since I can’t remember a day when Aston Martin’s historically gorgeous automobiles weren’t trampled by the performance of neighboring Jaguars or the German and Italian marques. And with the Rapide sedan, we have another stunning Aston Martin to admire. Shush!!!

The Rapide is certainly a looker. The roofline moves at illegal speeds, thanks to greenhouse’s acres of tumblehome and the muscular haunches of the rear fenders’ leading edge. Sure, the Rapide is a hunkering, swaggering affair. But unlike the earth-hugging wedge of William Town’s 1976 Aston Martin Lagonda, the Rapide isn’t a serious re-think of the traditional luxury sedan: it’s a Dachshund-ized DB9 with a significantly wider rear track. No surprise then, that the Rapide so closely resembles the coupe there’s almost no difference from the front or rear. For all the grief this website gives Detroit for its bankruptcy-worthy platform sharing, Aston Martin’s badge engineering for the D&G crowd is a slippery slope (see: Aston’s planned Cygnet).

And it’s the same inside: think Mazda RX8 with a Vantage extreme makeover. Aside from the smaller front portal, occupants receive the same decadent ambiance of the Aston coupes. Maybe that’s a good thing, as a recent redesign of the center stack has easier to use controls, a better navigation interface and a chronometer that isn’t lifted from a Ford Fusion. And the fifteen speaker Bang and Olufsen stereo has interstellar imaging, after the diva-like tweeters get over themselves and fully extend out of the dashboard. While the Panamera doesn’t share much of anything with the 911, the badge engineered Rapide is still an entertaining piece of kit: the rear seats do a folding trick to extend the hatchback’s somewhat useless space into something IKEA-worthy. Like, awesome.

Our tester came with black leather, red stitching, metal trim with polished accents: a decidedly sporty, top dollar affair that smells even better than it looks. All four seats are contoured for beautifully slender people who appreciate thin padding, albeit with the heating and cooling features deemed mandatory at this price point. The Alcantara headliner is stitched stem to stern, with no provision for a glass-paneled roof. But the miniscule vanity mirrors turn your face into a Fun House distortion: perhaps the Rapide hates being a real luxury sedan so much it wants you to hate yourself?

Self-loathing aside, the Rapide is a decent sports car from the driver’s seat. The high-strung 6.0L mill makes all the right Italian V12 noises from the rear and inside the cabin, though bystanders posted yards ahead hear the same sucking sound of a Duratec-equipped Ford. Get on the cams fast, because peak power comes far later than any top-drawer Merc or BMW sedan. Like that German competition, the Rapide’s six speed is a true automatic, but with quick up shifts and paddle controllers that work well enough to make you swear there’s a F1-style gearbox underneath. If the competition didn’t fall in love with turbocharging, the Rapide would be one sweet rocket ship.

But corners are here for a reason, and the Rapide excels in its purity of powertrain and that coupe-like chassis. The low seating position, tight steering, adjustable dampers and 20-inch rolling stock deliver a command performance of flat cornering with immense grip. I never felt the extra wheelbase or pounds of bulk, and the hindquarters rotated the chassis with zero drama and no complaints: coupe performance Über Alles.

But I was a second-class citizen when the same dynamic tests occurred in the rear seat. The intelligent dampers’ smoother-than-DB9 ride is much appreciated, because it’s loud and claustrophobic back there: the full-length console and assertive exhaust note lose their elegant demeanor after a few minutes of actual usage. The rear buckets encourage G-forces from the driver, though the terrible visibility makes rearward occupants wonder what the hell is going on. And escaping via the trap door portal (utilizing Kia-worthy gas assist struts) without scratching any leather or paint is a difficult task.

Perhaps it was operator error: the dull venue and my uninspiring clothing weren’t worthy of a typical Aston Martin owner. Expectations of haute couture aside, everyone understands how the Rapide perfectly blurs the line between coupe and sedan, but a select few feel that blend of bragging rights and disappointing compromise. That’s provided they meet the business end of a Panamera or an AMG V12, ‘natch. So the Rapide is what an Aston has always been: beautifully constructed, elegantly sculpted and behind the competition.

The Vantage coupe is the best looking car on sale in North America. Aston’s engineers admitted to a British newspaper that they designed the Vantage by morphing Adriana Lima and a clone of Leonardo Da Vinci: a blend of emotionally irresistible and mathematically precise curves and planes. Like the Brazilian model, the AM Vantage is much smaller in person than you’d expect– about the size of a Porsche 911. Only while the 911 is the same as it ever was, the Vantage is burning down the house.

I’m inclined to knock convertible sports cars as “less serious” than their tin-top progenitors. But the Vantage Roadster is tight, right and outta sight. It doesn't suffer from the popular "fat ass convertible" syndrome. My only gripe: with the top up, the Vantage's side window shape is imperfect– and that's unacceptable when the rest of the car actually is perfect. So, we won't be seeing an Aston Martin Vantage Roadster resting on its laurels in MOMA. But then again… with the top down, it’s a twelve out of ten. 

Sitting in the Vantage is an occasion worthy of Farago's 50th. Fellow writers warned me that the Aston's cabin was far too brittle and cheap for a $100k+ Texan-Saudi-British automobile. They were right– in the past. For 2009, the Vantage gets an interior refresh that brings it in line with the excruciatingly exquisite DB9. All the Vantage's ancillary parts– switches, knobs, panels– have been kicked-up to first class. 

The Lima's-thigh-soft leather smells like money. The parking brake is a long hand lever on the floor, to the left of the driver. The wood is real wood without 3 inches of polyurethane shellacked on. Sexual metaphors aside, it's a MacBook Air in an old school wrapper.

This is the part where past reviews of the Aston Vantage get into letdown mode. The drive can’t match the looks, it's underpowered and not the finest track handler. This time out, it's not entirely true. And. Misses. The. Point. Yes, the 2009 Vantage is significantly quicker than the 2008 model, but it's not as quick as its competitors. And I have no doubt whatsoever that an Evo would trounce it on a track. But it’s of absolutely no consequence.

Above 4000 rpm, the Vantage's exhaust flap opens. Top down, what was a wonderful chamber orchestra concert is now an all-out assault on your senses. The sound of the Vantage's engine at WOT is in a league entirely of its own. This is different than a GM V8 burble, or the power ballad of a Mercedes AMG, or a motorsport-emulating Ferrari V8. In the Aston, the engine and exhaust sounds are in an amazing contradiction. The engine is refined, and screaming. It’s pure as the driven snow, but dangerous and thrilling. It’s motherfucking opera.

As it happens, this sound is the reason you don’t buy the manual transmission. Because one day you’ll mash the pedal and the sound of the engine will curl your toes. Now how are you going to shift, with your left foot contorted and numb? At least you thought ahead and bought the Roadster, so you can have that cigarette you will so desperately need.     

The handling is absolutely bloody mahvelous. Oh sure, it can’t match the deus ex machina handling of a four wheel-drive Porsche Turbo. But that’s computers trumping physics. The Vantage Roadster is a proper sports car, with limits to find and exploit. The steering feedback is more direct than a Brit from oop north. The suspension certainly is hard, but you never have that brutal, jarring moment of falling into a pothole.    

The Vantage Roadster is Aston's long-awaited return to form. It's a car that identifies its owner as a suave sybarite, from a long line of eyebrow archers. At the same time, it's got a genuinely dangerous edge. Although the Vantage's horsepower is still laughable compared to its direct rivals, it's no longer a deal-breaker. Lest we forget, Ian Fleming's Bond was, in fact, a Bentley man; a company that used to describe its horsepower as "adequate." Indeed. 

Blessed are the souls at Ford's Premier Automotive Group, for they gave Aston's sublime DB9 a more youthful, athletic and attainable sister. The Vantages’ timeless long hood/short deck maintains the family resemblance, but the its tighter proportions work better with Aston’s characteristic sexy C-pillar and toned shoulder lines. Thumbing their nose at Bangles and Blingers, Aston tucked all ancillary objects out of sight, or integrated into the big picture in a manner befitting Gaussian Elimination. If the slick door handles don't impress, the utter lack of body cutlines takes minimalist art on a four-wheeled joyride.  The pictures don't lie.

Eighteen inch wheels tucked neatly into the package add to the sleek but muscular stance. Work the trick door release and a symphony of hinges open and raise the portal. Sure, the Vantage’s interior is basically the same as the DB9’s, but that's like saying Ashley Judd and Naomi Watts could be sisters. Tender, aromatic leather wraps around everything in sight. The car’s switches, buttons and levers move with such silky precision I bet they were marinated in Mobil 1 before assembly. The aluminum HVAC knobs click with all the reassuring resistance of rheostats in a ‘60’s vintage stereo console.

Not to belabor the point, but the Aston’s cabin’s sensual tactility is inescapable. Like the perfect love, the seats hold you tight without feeling clingy. The machined aluminum gauge faces make your TAG Heuer look like a $9.99 blue light special.  Taken as a whole, it’s Kubla Khan’s pleasure dome on wheels. And then… Attention K-Mart shoppers! If you like the Aston Martin’s clock, why not stop by the Ford aisle and pickup a Fusion?  And so it begins…

The AM’s stubby suede sunvisors lack illuminated vanity mirrors– a necessity for any ride appealing to buyers who’d never even think of calling Neiman Marcus Needless Markup. Where are the ventilated seats?  Why is the beat box so unworthy of audiophiles’ attention? Where’s the auto dimming rearview mirror? (For over two decades, Dearborn's vehicles have sported this necessary gadget for a moderate premium.) Granted Aston's minimalist presence implies a rejection of BMW-league gadgetry, but a $110k grand-touring car that’s missing the luxo-basics proves that less is (indeed) less.

Depress the Vantage's solid glass starter button (an affectation worthy of its heritage) and your potential soul mate comes to life. The Aston’s exotic engine tenor speaks volumes, but step on the throttle and the love in your heart wanes. It’s a wonderful day when 380 peak horsepower is merely adequate for a luxury two-seater, but the Vantage's powerband fails to satisfy like a fully engaged Porsche 911, or dumbfound like a boosted Benz at full chat.  Aston's paltry 302lb-ft of torque at 5000rpm is shameful for a modern eight-cylinder. Acceleration is brisk above 3500 revs, but the Aston nameplate should guarantee seamless shove from the git-go.

Allegro up the dance beat and the V8 Vantage's bold exhaust note sets souls afire faster than the perfect Lambada partner. The rearward burble sings a thrilling tenor, even without a harmonizing induction growl up front. The precise short throw six-speed transmission has nicely matched ratios and excellent clutch pickup: a sad necessity to keep pace with its competition. 

Throw the Vantage a few curves and it feels, well, okay. The accurate steering sits somewhere between butch Corvette and effortless 911. The dampers say touring above all: flat cornering and impressive feel at 6/10ths, soft and vague at the limit. The Vantage’s aluminum intensive chassis allows the car to swing faster than its stunning proportions imply, allowing for generous speed through a corner (provided you keep the revs up the powerband). But find yourself in the wrong gear mid-corner and the party’s over. Why must such an exclusive, expensive party stop at all?

Aston’s latest beauty clearly states its intention to pistonheads looking for the ideal long-term partner. Its beauty knows no bounds. Its engineering looks great on paper. But drive the beast like a proper sports car, and you immediately discover that the Vantage is the best of all possible rides from the previous millennia. For those willing to sacrifice peak performance in the never-ending quest for beauty, cabin quality and infinite attention to detail, the Vantage makes a fine traveling companion. For the rest, it’s best to worship from afar.  

Eventually, I stopped stalking the DB9 and went to open the door. This requires a patient, concerted effort; the doors are operated via a cantilevered handle imbedded in the sheet metal.  You push in to make the door handle to pop out.  The portals are perfectly balanced. Their swan-like upward arcing motion stops anywhere you choose in its cycle.  Aston hasn’t offered this level of engineering precision or attention to detail since, um, ever. 

Enter the cabin and the aroma of fine leather and natural wood overwhelms your brain’s olfactory center.  Again, running your hand over everything is a subconscious response.  Although there’s lots of room forward and back, the seats only offer a narrow slot between the high bolsters for your bottom, so anything from short and skinny to tall and skinny works just fine.  The leather is hand-fitted and feels very plush, thick and warming.  In fact, the longer your sits in them at anything above room temperature, the more you wish for perforations and active ventilation.  

The DB9’s interior is perfectly plush, but the lighter-colored suede headliner is the only bright note in an otherwise dark carcoon.  Rear visibility comes straight from the “What is behind me is not important” school of gumball racing, and makes the electronic parking assistance beeper a mandatory annoyance.  The DB9’s gigantic blind spots also necessitate Volvo’s latest high-tech electronic lane change assistance and warning system, which is unfortunately unavailable. 

To start the DB9, you fit the plastic key into the ignition and turn.  Nothing.  Oh right.  Put your foot on the brake, push the dash-mounted crystal “power” button and the twelve-pot powerplant rumbles to life.  It’s all very dramatic, but couldn’t Aston just borrow a keyless entry system from Toyota.  A little message appears on the dashboard display: “Power, Beauty, Soul!”  If the DB9 conformed to the UK’s truth in advertising laws, it would’ve read: “Ponderous, Expensive, Fragile!” I should have revved the motor a few times, switched off the car, got out and stared at it some more.  

Alas, I drove it.  For a two-seater holstering a V12 this menacing sounding, forward thrust is distinctly lacking.  (Two tons of dead weight can do that to a car.)  On the positive side, the DB9’s automatic transmission is both flexible and responsive.  Downshifting via the large aluminum paddles is a pleasure; leaving things to the computer is almost as satisfying.  Hang on.  Why does that Subaru keep leaving me at the lights?  I need to flog the old girl a bit harder– which seems a bit churlish.  I should be able to simply outwaft the bastard.  

At the first corner, I instantly regret my excess speed. The brakes are hard in their initial application, not unlike a Porsche 911 but the DB9’s wooden feel remains, sapping confidence.  Turn-in is as flaccid as a dead flounder.  Steering is vague, heavy and unpleasant; it’s as if there’s a gyroscope biasing the DB9 toward a straight line.  Not to put too fine a point on it, cornering is something of a chore.  Equilibrium is only restored when the road unwinds again.  Driving the gentlemanly Aston requires a strange sort of rhythm: straights good, stopping bad; smooth roads good, corners bad; exhaust note good, stop light bad.   

In light of the DB9’s unremarkable handling, the harsh ride quality is completely unacceptable. As is the incredibly expensive Linn 950 watt stereo: an incessant buzzing sound emanating from one of the rear speakers destroys all hope of suitable bass response.  And I scoffed that a trickle charger was part of the standard kit until a few days rest drained the battery.  An inattentive Aston owner must then learn to remove the rear seats to access the battery thoughtlessly sealed inside the trunk by the electric lock.  

The DB9’s driving dynamics are a disaster.  Luckily, the Aston has carisma.  No doubt: emerging from an Aston Martin DB9 tells the world that its driver is a serious player (not playa).  All you have to do to maintain the fiction is not tell anyone there are plenty of lesser (i.e. dramatically cheaper) cars that go faster, handle better and are more fun to drive.  I drive an Aston Martin, so do yourself a favor and buzz off Mate.  Charmed?  Not quite.

The Vanquish's appearance is the most obvious advantage. The car has enough visual drama to make a DB7 look mundane, or a Carrera look like a suppository. The enormous rear wheel haunches are the aesthetic departure point. Ian Callum has done a remarkable job blending this bulky cliché into the DB7's svelte shape. Combined with a perfectly proportioned reiteration of the classic Aston nose, the result is the first Aston since Bond's DB5 to combine aggression with elegance. The design's only weakness– the elliptical boot line– will be remedied by the forthcoming Zagato version.

Meanwhile, there's good news inside: Aston has shrugged off the curse of the tree nymphs. The terminally fuddy-duddy polished wood is gone. Instead, there's brushed aluminium, and enough sweet-smelling leather to clothe a German city. The sense of occasion is almost spoiled by the bog-standard Jaguar air con/radio/sat nav unit dominating the centre console. Almost, but not quite. The leather and aluminium steering wheel, black on white dials and red starter button are sufficient to distract drivers from Aston's raid on the Ford parts bin. And let's not forget those bat-eared paddle shifts.

Or maybe we should. A £160k car requiring a pre-delivery driving lesson is inherently suspicious. You might forget something and break it-which is bad when it's not your car, and infinitely annoying if it is. My instructor's seamless progress seemed to confirm his claim that 'driver error' caused the press cars' much-reported fried clutch 'situation'. I say, 'seemed' because Astonman warned me to ignore the auto function, keep the box in sport mode, always pop her into neutral when stationary, shift up at exactly 4000rpms, and practice! Surely the repercussions of ignoring this advice revealed an engineering weakness rather than journalistic hubris…

Unlike its forbearers, the Vanquish's 'eccentricity' is a reward, not a punishment. Retracing Astonman's route from the driver's seat, I discovered that pulling the right-hand paddle in the correct mode at the correct rpms was like smacking a golf ball with the sweet spot. Get it right, and the thing just takes off. The Vanquish serves up 400 of her 460 horses at 5000rpms, so there's no reason not to shift early and often.

Flying down country lanes, I gradually got the measure of the beast. Nike should sponsor downshifts. Just do it. As you set yourself up for a corner or overtaking manoeuvre, the engine management system blips the throttle and adjusts the revs. Excellent. But I don't believe Aston's system is more efficient for scruff-of-the-neck, high-revving fun. The slurred delay between gears is palpable. Even if the numbers say it is more efficient, I still consider a tiny pause between accelerative bursts one of driving's greatest joys. If you don't want each gear to be a separate event, buy an automatic.

The Vanquish's handling and suspension are so well mannered the paddle shift's shortcomings are soon forgotten. The Vanquish is a heavy old thing, weighing some 100kgs more than Ferrari's massive 575M. Thanks to Aston's chassis gurus, the British car feels significantly lighter than its Italian rival. Of course, both cars boast such extreme limits of adhesion that cornering quickly is almost a forgone conclusion. But the Aston's razor-sharp steering and fuss free suspension make it the easier of the two to fling about. You can make ridiculous mistakes with the throttle and get away with it. While the Vanquish is no sports car– you sit on it rather than in it– the GT can keep up with all but the most accomplished members of the performance fraternity. Did I hear someone say Porsche?

No, sorry, I didn't. I was distracted by the Vanquish's addictive soundtrack. The car's engine pumps out a glorious noise, which sounds like a hi-tech remix of 1960's Grand Prix racers. It's a hit! Strangely enough, the Vanquish sounds even better outside the cabin, where huge bass notes whack bystanders in the chest. The car sounds very, very special.

Which it is. I'm not saying that the Vanquish is better than a Porsche– any Porsche. Aston has a long way to go before it creates anything as dynamically accomplished or mechanically refined as even a basic Boxster. But the Vanquish is the first Aston I've encountered that delivers enough genuine driving pleasure to make you forgive its relative shortcomings. Newport Pagnell's finest may not be 'better' than the competition, but it is gloriously, triumphantly different. The Vanquish has the charisma it needs to justify Ford's patronage, and an enthusiast's decision to acquire one.

Encountering a fully restored DB5 39-years after its screen debut (in Goldfinger) it's easy to understand the filmmakers' choice. The Aston still looks fast enough to take on a Ferrari – any Ferrari. Although Touring of Milan sculpted the shape, the DB5 is nothing like the delicately proportioned Ferraris and Maseratis of its day. Examined in detail, the Aston appears to be an automotive farrago, combining a 'smiling bulldog' front grille, muscle car front air scoop, mini-Cadillac tapered wings and Volvo-esque rear window. Taken as a whole, it's the automotive equivalent of a Saville Row suit: butch, yet infinitely elegant. Like Bond himself, the DB5's design somehow manages to combine infinite sophistication with unbridled aggression.

Of course, driving the beast is entirely another matter. 'Maximum Bob' Fountain of The Aston Martin Workshop recently gave me the chance to pilot the non-Corgi version of the car that launched a thousand childhood fantasies. Specifically, I sat behind the wheel a silver DB5 that had just soaked up £175,000 of a California collector's hard-earned cash. And a very nice place to sit it is too. The DB5's wood and leather cabin is an instant, visceral reminder of a time when 'hand made' was synonymous with 'quality'. All the controls, from the gleaming aluminium choke lever to the rock hard plastic turning stalks, snick home with sensual precision. The simple, tasteful décor inspires the same feeling of well-being you'd expect from a London gentleman's club.

Turning the key of the restored car brings the DB5's tuneful engine to life. Fellow anoraks will know that the DB5 was no great mechanical leap forward. Although the car incorporated Aston's full range of engineering expertise, it wasn't as fast as the revolutionary (and vastly less expensive) Jaguar E-Type. It wasn't meant to be. Despite Aston's distinguished racing heritage, the DB5 was designed as a Grand Tourer. Polish engineer Tadek Marek created a 282bhp engine that could generate tremendous (for its day) low-down grunt. Mated to a five-speed gearbox, the 4.0-litre engine propels the relatively heavy DB5 to 60mph in 8.1 seconds, and on to a not inconsiderable 141mph. Multi-pot disc brakes on all four wheels help brave drivers haul the beast back from such 'vigorous' speeds.

After a suitable warm-up, I was free to see what the figures mean in the real world. Doing so on County Durham's country lanes immediately increased my respect for Mr. Brosnan's stunt driver. Bereft of power steering, hustling the car demands a firm hand, muscular shoulders, total concentration, a little talent and a lot of practice. Not to mention bravery. And accuracy; you need the timing of a goalie and the aim of a darts champion to quickly slot the box into the right gear. The brakes are effective, but require both full commitment and a good old-fashioned shove. The suspension? Well, it does nothing to help the car corner at speed. If you persist in thrashing a DB, you'll need to install a racing harness or get a good hold on that wheel; the seats provide no lateral support whatsoever.

Why stress yourself? The DB5 was born to drive on a wide-open road, with a wide-open throttle. That's when the car's unique appeal starts to come through. Everything settles down. The engine provides a soundtrack as quietly reassuring as the steady hum of a twin-engine airplane. Even at 80 miles per hour, you can talk to your passenger or listen to the radio. Meanwhile, minor road imperfections are dismissed with aristocratic disdain. As long as the bends are long and flowing, you can exploit the DB5's structural integrity. Easy does it though. Nice and easy.

The DB5 is an automotive icon as deeply, uniquely British as a pair of gently glowing Lobb shoes or a Purdey side-by-side shotgun. Compared to any modern car, it drives like a truck. So what? The lesson I took away from this encounter was that great design is ultimately more important than outright performance. If you love something, you forgive its shortcomings, and continue to cherish it long after its been eclipsed by something newer and ostensibly better. Goldeneye's producers understood this perfectly. Manufacturers like Ferrari, whose new FX/F60 indicates they're chasing performance at the expense of beauty, or Porsche, whose Cayenne is a bastardisation of a noble design heritage, don't.