Large organizations are prone to overly simplistic thinking. It’s just too hard to communicate anything complicated or nuanced to all involved. One overly simple idea: reduce the size of the engine, and fuel economy will improve. Need a performance variant? Shrink the engine a little more and add a turbo. The actual result in the case of the Cadillac SRX: a base engine with too little torque and an optional engine for which GM charged $3,820—to provide performance similar to everyone else’s base engines. For 2012, the SRX receives a solution that was obvious from the start: the corporate 3.6-liter V6 replaces last year’s 3.0-liter. The turbocharged 2.8 is gone. And?

And the 3.6-liter V6, revised for 2012, performs adequately. Nothing more, nothing less. It doesn’t have an upscale or sophisticated sound, but it isn’t hard on the ears, either. It’s not quick—the SRX with all-wheel-drive weighs 4,442 pounds, about 300 more than the CTS sedan powered by a 318-horsepower longitudinal variant of this engine—but it’s not slow, either. The all-wheel-drive system includes an active rear differential, but the engine, while dramatically torquier (265 pound-feet at 2,400 rpm, up from the 3.0′s 223 at 5,100), still isn’t torquey enough to take advantage of it. Fuel economy? The trip computer reported about 17 miles-per-gallon in suburban driving, about 21 on the highway. The EPA numbers: 16 / 23, just a bit worse than the “fuel-saving” 3.0′s 17 / 23 and better than the 2.8 turbo’s 15 / 22.

With the new 308-horsepower engine (up from 265 for the 3.0 and 295 for the 2.8T), the Cadillac edges even closer to the class norm. The Lexus RX 350 has a 275–horsepower 3.5-liter V6. The Lincoln MKX a 305-horspower 3.7. The Acura MDX a 300–horsepower 3.7. The others are all within 150 pounds of Cadillac (the Lexus a little lower, the Lincoln and Acura a little higher). All have six-speed automatic transmissions and all-wheel-drive systems that engage when the front wheels slip (the Acura’s system in a more proactive manner than the others). So straight line performance is similar.

Braking, not so much. The Cadillac might stop as well as the others (I didn’t measure this) but its brakes require an unusually large amount of force. At a BMW comparison drive I attended about a year ago, the organizers felt the need to warn all participants about the SRX’s brakes. On the other hand, if you like a very firm brake pedal, the Cadillac delivers.

Dimensionally all four luxury crossovers are again similar, and so all are similarly larger and bulkier than the relatively spry Audi Q5, BMW X5, and Volvo XC60. The Cadillac feels especially solid and has the most tightly damped suspension of the bunch, but still manages to feel larger and bulkier than it actually is thanks to numb steering and a distant windshield. If it’s any more fun to drive than the others this is strictly relative. Of course, Cadillac tried catering to driving enthusiasts with the original SRX, and it sold poorly. The current one, with its much more mainstream (i.e. Lexus RX-like) configuration, is selling far better.

In terms of interior dimensions, the Cadillac doesn’t quite measure up, with a somewhat tighter rear seat and cargo area than the others. The Acura is the champ here, with a wider cabin and a third-row seat (adults only in a pinch). But the Cadillac isn’t so far behind that these deficits are deal-killers. The front seat, which is a much higher priority for many buyers, feels fairly roomy. What it doesn’t feel: notably comfortable. The cushion is flat and firm, even hard. Among this year’s Cadillacs, only the upcoming XTS has the large, cosseting seats many people expect in a Cadillac.

My favorite feature in the Cadillac: a rear seat belt reminder that shows which of the three are in use and lights up a warning if any are undone while the car is still in motion. This feature is very useful if you have kids—no need to visually check whether they’ve buckled up. I expect to find it in more and more car models going forward. Perhaps even all of them, if car safety regulators get their way.

The tested SRX, the top trim with all-wheel-drive and optional dual-screen entertainment system, lists for $51,055. Compared to the Lincoln MKX, the Cadillac is priced within $500. Adjust for feature differences using TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool bumps the Cadillac’s advantage to $2,000 at MSRP, $1,100 at invoice (Cadillac dealers must work with especially miserly margins). The Lexus is the one both Cadillac and Lincoln are gunning for. When the RX 350 and SRX are both similarly loaded up, the Lexus costs about $3,000 more—at MSRP. Compare invoices, and they’re only about $400 apart because Lexus dealers enjoy much more generous margins. Adjust for remaining feature differences and the Cadillac’s price advantage grows by about $1,200. The Acura is priced a little higher than the Lexus. So the Cadillac is actually the least expensive. With the $3,820 2.8 turbo, it lost this important advantage. So in this respect the new 3.6-liter engine is very successful.

The rear seat belt reminder doesn’t turn you on? Going over the specs and features, now that the weak base engine is history nothing else stands out, positively or negatively? Why, then, pick the Cadillac over the others? One word: styling. The Acura, Lexus, and Lincoln are nothing special to look at. The last still looks a bit much like…a Ford. The Cadillac, with its chunky styling and aggressive stance (with the must-have 20-inch wheels), looks nothing like the others and nothing like a Chevrolet, either. Instead, it appears crisp and upscale, especially in “gray flannel metallic,” vying with the second-generation CTS as the best realization of the marque’s polarizing art-and-science design language. You might not like it, but you won’t mistake it for something else. Judging from sales, plenty of people do like it.

Cadillac provided the car with insurance and a tank of gas.

Michael Karesh operates TrueDelta.com, an online provider of car reliability and real-world fuel economy information.

How time flies. Five years ago the second-generation Cadillac CTS had just debuted at NAIAS. While prettier than the original, it was also fresh, exciting, and proof that Bob Lutz’s General Motors could turn out a damn fine car when it really wanted to. People who hadn’t owned a GM product for decades bought one, my father among them. Five auto shows on and we’ve glimpsed Cadillac’s future with the 2013 ATS. Does the 2012 CTS seem well beyond its sell-by date? Or does the old car, with a new 3.6-liter V6 engine and a new Touring Package, retain some compelling advantages?

The CTS casts a considerably larger shadow than the ATS: nine inches longer (on a four-inch-longer wheelbase), an inch wider and two inches taller. The additional inches enable sheet metal that is both more dramatic and more graceful than the new car’s, with more athletically flared fenders and a less severely truncated tail. The leaner ATS isn’t an unattractive car, but it won’t induce double-takes the way the CTS did five years ago. It doesn’t make a strong enough statement to establish an instantly recognizable design language for the brand. But since two generations of the CTS have already accomplished this difficult task, the ATS will get by with toned down Cadillac cues attached to a body that could otherwise be mistaken for a Mercedes-Benz C-Class.

Aside from its headlights, nothing marks the ATS as the (much) newer design. Then again, if we had first seen the CTS this year, it would have still looked fresh. But of course we’ve seen it plenty. The “new” ain’t coming back without much more significant exterior changes than GM has made over the past half-decade. Even the Y-spoked chrome-plated wheels included in the new Touring Package have been available on the car since the 2010. The Touring Package’s spoiler-shaped CHMSL? Borrowed from the V.

Inside, the CTS’s age is much more evident. The silver-painted plastic flowing down the center stack appeared downscale and dated even in the car’s first year. The cleaner center stack in the ATS doesn’t make the same mistakes, with piano black trim and touch-sensitive controls (much like those first seen in the 2011 Lincoln MKX) instead of mechanical buttons.

And the retractable display used in the CTS? It’s from a bygone era where nearly every interaction with the car didn’t involve a screen. (Some new Audis still employ this gimmick, but what’s the point when the thing will have to almost always be deployed?) Bluetooth is now standard in the CTS, but perhaps because the controls were designed when GM was still putting all of its eggs in the OnStar basket, I never figured out how to access it. (Yes, I know, RTFM, but this hasn’t been necessary with other cars.) The Touring Package mildly dresses up the cabin with metal pedals and black-stained wood trim. Want an interior that’s not gray, black, or tan (the latter not available with the Touring Package)? Then wait for the ATS.

Like the ATS, the CTS was designed to compete with the BMW 3-Series. So while the older car is roomier than the new one inside, it’s not a full size class roomier. The largest difference: an additional two inches of rear seat legroom. But these additional inches aren’t enough to make the CTS’s rear seat suitable for long-distance adult occupancy, as the seat is small and mounted low.

Trunk space? The CTS’s 13.6 cubic feet only seem commodious compared to the ATS “is that a typo?” and its 10.2 cubic feet. Opponents of conventional hinges have a new poster child:

The official specs don’t tell you everything. From the driver’s seat the two sedans seem quite different. You sit about an inch lower in the ATS behind a more compact instrument panel and a smaller-diameter steering wheel. An inch difference in the “H-point” has a much larger impact than you might think. Partly because of this, the new car seems much smaller and more agile even when not in motion. (How it feels in motion will have to await some on-road seat time.) On the other hand, the CTS’s higher driving position and larger interior components fit the car’s brash, muscular personality.

The CTS’s standard front bucket seats, apparently patterned after those in the Corvette, have never seemed substantial enough for the car. The Touring Package replaces these with the allegedly optional Recaros you’ll find in just about every V. The power-adjustable thigh and seatback bolsters of these “high performance seats” provide as much lateral support as you can stand. Despite four-way power lumbar adjustments, they’re not comfortable. Even towards the end of my week with the car I kept tweaking the lumbar adjustment in search of a setting where I didn’t feel a rod pressing uncomfortably into my lower back. My brief time with the seats in the ATS suggests that they’ll provide decent lateral support and more comfort than either of the CTS’s seats.

In the past, if you’ve wanted both the sueded steering wheel and the Recaros in the non-V CTS you were, to employ another acronym, SOL. Unlike in the V, where the suede requires the Recaros, you had to choose between one or the other. This year both are only available together, as parts of the Touring Package. The clear lens taillights that previously acoompanied the sueded tiller did not survive the rehash.

For 2012, the CTS’s 3.6-liter V6 has been thoroughly revised,  gaining 14 horsepower (for a total of 318) in the process. The new V6 sounds a little pedestrian at part throttle in the midrange, but transitions to a tone worthy of a premium sport sedan if you open up the throttle and wind it out. Acceleration is strong enough that few people will feel the need for the 556-horsepower V. (Just don’t sample the V, or you’ll become addicted to its excess. That car made me do bad things.) But the ATS should feel considerably more energetic. Cadillac acquired some serious weight-saving religion during the more compact sedan’s gestation, and packed it full of aluminum and magnesium. Consequently the same 3.6-liter V6 will have over a quarter-ton less to motivate. Unimproved with the new V6 are the  EPA fuel economy ratings, which remain at 18/27 mpg city/ highway.

Unfortunately, a six-speed manual won’t be available with the new V6 in either car. In the ATS devotees of the third pedal will have one choice, a 270-horsepower turbocharged four. In the CTS the manual is now available only with the underwhelming 3.0-liter V6. The CTS’s six-speed automatic is slow to react to manual shifting. Smallish buttons hidden on the backside of the steering wheel spokes require hands at nine and three. Prefer ten and two? Well, it might be best to let the transmission call the shifts anyway. In the ATS, large magnesium paddles will be available—much better.

Since its launch, the regular CTS has been available with three different suspensions, FE1, FE2, and FE3. With the FE1 suspension the car feels vague and even sloppy. Discouraged by reviews of the FE3, and without the ability to sample it in advance, my father ordered his car with the FE2, billed as offering the best ride-handling balance. That was a mistake. He ended up getting rid of the car because the FE2 suspension doesn’t sufficiently control body motions. On the wavy highway that leads to his house, the car provoked severe “head toss” over every undulation. On such roads, the firmer FE3 suspension actually rides much steadier, while remaining well short of harsh over patchy pavement. The FE3 car also feels tighter and more precise. If only we’d known back in the fall of 2007 that this was the suspension to get. One downside: The FE3 is only available with the 19-inch high-performance summer tires (specifically 245/45ZR19 ContiSportContacts). If you live where it snows, you’ll be investing in winter treads.

Even with the FE3 suspension and a limited-slip differential (bundled with the summer tires), the CTS lacks the character of a precision instrument. Instead, even in non-V form, it’s a two-ton linebacker of a sport sedan with a more overt character than you’ll find in competitors: big, bold, and ballsy. Vigorous control inputs aren’t the smartest, fastest way to drive, but the CTS invites them. While I’ve yet to drive the new ATS, my discussions with the engineering team (plus the much lower curb weight and lower seating position) suggest that it will feel tighter, lighter, and more precise – especially with its FE3 sport suspension, which will include magnetic ride control shocks like those standard in the CTS-V but not available in the regular CTS. You’ll also find a more refined chassis (perhaps to a fault) in the front-wheel-drive Buick Regal GS.

The hydraulic-assist system in the CTS feels much like that in the V, providing a level of tactility rarely found in today’s cars. At first touch, the system has the same insulated, numb feel found in the typical luxury sedan, but layered below is a more direct connection and even nuanced feedback. I cannot recall another car (aside from the V) with similarly multi-layered steering. Unlike in the CTS-V, engaging “Competitive Mode” does not reduce the level of steering assist. Assist will vary by mode in the ATS, but the system will be electric rather than hydraulic.

Not that you have to use the steering wheel to rotate the CTS. The rear end’s lateral slip can be progressively modulated with the throttle. At a steady speed through turns the CTS’s nose feels a little reluctant to hold a tight line. A little throttle balances the chassis nicely. Overcook it, and the stability control system cuts in almost seamlessly. Don’t need the nanny? It can be completely turned off, but even “Competitive Mode” bumps the threshhold enough that the car can get seriously sideways. Use with care. The stability control might have led you to think you’re a better driver than you actually are.

At first glance, the $2,810 Touring Package is a bargain. The seats and suede alone list for $3,700 in the V. The package deletes a heated steering wheel and folding rear seat that aren’t available in the supercharged sedan. GM may have feared a sale-proof window sticker, but then perhaps they shouldn’t have restricted the package to the top spec CTS. Add $995 “black diamond tricoat” and the bottom line nudges over $55,000.

Seem steep? A similarly-equipped BMW 335i will set you back about the same. But then BMW isn’t known for reasonable pricing, especially not on heavily equipped cars. The Infiniti G37 has long been the value play in this segment, with a sticker price over $10,000 below the others. Even after a $2,200 adjustment for the Cadillac’s additional features (as calculated by TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool) the CTS checks in nearly $8,000 higher. If you can do without the Touring Package’s sueded steering wheel and Recaro seats, then the pricing shifts about $2,500 in the Cadillac’s favor (the tool accounts for power adjustments, but not the Recaro label).

The advent of the ATS highlights the CTS’s shortcomings, most notably dated controls, passé silver plastic trim, and an extra quarter-ton of curb weight. If you want the latest tech or the most agile handling, wait for the truly compact Cadillac. And yet, even in its fifth model year the CTS retains a striking exterior and engaging personality. The ATS doesn’t have the same visual impact, and might lack the same driving dynamics as well, in a bid to beat the polished Europeans at their own game. To this the Touring Package brings all of the CTS’s sportiest available features together for the first time in the same non-V car. If you no taste for the latest tech, and prefer the character of a linebacker to that of a point guard, then no need to wait for the ATS.

Disclaimer: Cadillac provided the car for a week with insurance and a tank of gas.

Michael Karesh operates TrueDelta.com, an online provider of car reliability and real-world fuel economy information.

Okay… you read about the Sturm und Drang involved in getting this 48,000-mile, two-owner Cadillac from Columbus, Ohio to Houston, Texas. Now it’s time to talk about the car itself a bit, and review it just the way we would review any other car here at TTAC.

Problem is… how do you review a car like this? It was the last, and largest, of the full-sized Cadillacs. It represents many of the best, and even more of the worst, qualities associated with American auto manufacturing in the dismal Seventies. Socially, it has significance well beyond what we have room to discuss, or understand, in a short blog post. It’s too important, too relevant, too resonant, too repugnant, too. This feels like too big a task for little old me, even if I have the help of another very interesting Cadillac that you will meet in just a moment.

Let’s start with this: thirteen thousand dollars. That’s what this particular car cost. About five times the price of a basic compact car. Cadillac in 1976 was a microcosm, a synecdoche, of the Sloan Plan. At the bottom was Calais. At the top was Seville (if you were talking marketing), Fleetwood Sixty Special (if you were talking sheer size), or Eldorado (if you still believed in personal luxury). Cadillac sold over 309,000 cars in 1976. It was their best year ever, but the chickens were winging their way home to Michigan for some long-overdue roosting.

You’re looking at a Medici velour interior. That’s the stuff Cadillac put in their factory-built Fleetwood limousines, and that’s what makes a Fleetwood Sixty Special a “Talisman”. Dissect the model name. “Fleetwood” means it’s above the common-and-garden Calais and deVille. It looks similar, but it’s a few inches longer. Why? Just because. Today, we’d carp that the two different wheelbases for production Cadillac RWD sedans represented a production inefficiency. Back then, it was important to distinguish vehicles which otherwise weren’t all that different. And since Cadillac was still doing the seven-seat limos in-house, it seemed reasonable to offer multiple wheelbases.

“Sixty Special” meant that it was a town car. Not a Town Car, mind you, a “town car” as opposed to the Fleetwood Seventy-Five limo. This was an era where “limo” didn’t mean “tacky prom night special”. It meant a car for a man with a driver. There were plenty such men, mostly commuting from places like Rowayton or Sausalito, and plenty such drivers. But this Sixty Special was meant to be owner-driven.

Think of a Talisman as a Sixty Special with Seventy-Five interior appointments. The option list was still long, and it was possible to spend seventeen thousand dollars — more than half again the ten thousand-dollar base of the Fleetwood Brougham — on a completely-equipped Talisman. A new Seville, basically a Chevy Nova with leather, was thirteen grand. (A new Nova without the Seville logo? $3300. Thanks to gslippy and CJinSD for the price note – JB) The pricing had nothing to do with the product, the content, or the value. The pricing was social. It was there to signify Your Place In The World. Vice-presidents stepped into a Calais and joined the world of gentlemen. Respectable country-club fathers drove the Sedan de Ville. Board members were driven in a Seventy-Five, or they drove themselves in a Talisman. Sevilles were for West Coast get-rich-quick types. Eldorados were for women, movie stars, and “bounders”.

Now you understand what the car meant, a little bit anyway. I don’t think you can understand it fully unless you were alive back then and understood how quickly doormen, bank tellers, and other service personnel could tell the difference between this year’s Talisman and last year’s DeVille. It used to mean something. No longer. All we can do is drive the car.

Open the massive door. The handles, and the mirrors, are heavy, chromed, exclusive to Cadillac. The doorsill is stainless-steel and carries the Fisher logo. There are no window frames. Sit down — down — into the Medici velour. The trim, sadly, is mostly junk. It was junk when it was new. The wood is obviously fake. There’s no excuse for that, nor is there any excuse for the flimsy feel of the controls. It was Seventies profiteering at its worst, aimed at owners who bought a new Cadillac every year, or every two years, irrespective of the merits of said Cadillacs. Too much of this car was destined to fall apart from the moment it was built.

And yet the mechanical bones of the beast are solid beyond understanding. The starter sounds like an engine of its own, and it spins the five-hundred-cubic-inch V-8 into life easily. There is no vibration through the wheel, none of the sympathetic communication provided by a BMW 535i. This is a luxury car, in case you’ve forgotten what that means because you never knew in the God-damned first place. Visibility is absurdly good. The windshield is upright, the pillars are narrow. Only the privacy-enhancing sail panels in back keep it from being a perfect vista. No backup camera necessary, and this is a vehicle which stretches to nineteen and a half feet.

I drove this car thirteen hundred miles and never used full throttle. It wasn’t required. Isn’t required. In 1976, Cadillac offered fuel-injection on the 500. We don’t have it here, but we still have 380 lb/ft of torque to go with our lazy 190 horsepower. The mighty Talisman weighs slightly less than a modern Escalade and, truth be told, is somewhat more pleasant to guide down a freeway lane. I saw an average of fourteen miles per gallon in my driving, about what one might expect from a ‘Slade. Where’s the progress?

I wish I could put every TTAC reader behind the wheel of this Fleetwood. In a flash, in a single kinesthetic moment, you would understand what you don’t now. You think a Town Car is a “boat”. Hello no. A modern Town Car has the reflexes of a Lotus Elise in comparison to a ’76 Cadillac. You think a Camry has a “floaty ride”. You’re wrong. The imports, the “compacts”, the Car and Driver editors, they were all fighting to bury THIS CAR. This is a car which can barely match posted cornering limits around offramps. There isn’t the slightest bit of enthusiast appeal to the Fleetwood. It loafs, it sags, it leans, it doesn’t want to turn. When the 1977 Cadillac Fleetwood appeared on its downsized chassis, it was an utter revolution compared to this car. Every “full-sized” car most of you have ever driven is, instead, a full-on reaction to the massive GM and Ford boats. Put this and a 2009 Grand Marquis on a racetrack, and the Marquis would lap it in under ten minutes. The difference between this Fleetwood and a 1977 Fleetwood is greater than the difference between a 1977 Fleetwood and a BMW M5. That’s not hyperbole. It’s fact.

Now let me show you the revolution which followed the 1977 revolution. Dr. Sanjay Mehta, the Talisman’s owner, also has a Cadillac limo… from 1984. (Edit: Mad Hungarian and Austin Greene pointed out that it is probably a 1985 or 1986 model. Mea culpa – JB) It’s far more spacious inside, both front and back. Carries seven people better than the Talisman carries five. Let’s take a look.

Only eight years separate these two cars. In eight years, Cadillac changed its world. The Fleetwood dropped from 5400 pounds to 3400. An aluminum V-8 half as large as the ’76 engine provided virtually identical motivation, in numbers if not feel. Amazingly, the cars became larger inside, more spacious, easier to operate, easier to park, just plain better in most respects. Like an Apatosaurus poked in the hindquarters, GM was slow to react to the legitimate criticism of its big car but powerful in the magnitude of its response. Seventy-six to eighty-four. From dinosaur to mammal in the same time it takes Honda to build two different kinds of substantially similar Civics. And the mammal is just so much better at nearly everything.

Everything, that is, that has nothing to do with the core values of Cadillac. The smaller car, even when it isn’t a “limo”, has odd, dwarfish proportions. The vastly more efficient passenger compartment looks like the proverbial ten pounds in the five-pound bag. The public had barely accepted the 1977 de Ville as a necessary reaction to desperate times. but the FWD ‘Lac was comical, not dignified. It looked like a joke, like a child’s drawing of a car. Cadillacs didn’t need to be excellent, but they needed to be prestigious, and this was anything but prestigious. Sales fell dramatically as GM scrambled behind the scenes to “upsize” the car again, to put a little hood and trunk on it, to stop it from looking like a clown car that still, by the way, cost much more than twice what a normal family sedan did. They never returned to the massive, impressive look of 1976. They couldn’t even make it back to 1977. The current DTS looks like what it is: a sad attempt to expand the “Antares” not-quite-Aurora-but-had-to-be-second-generation-Aurora-due-to-budget-cuts G-body into something vaguely Cadillac-esque. Next to a ’76, it looks like a sick joke at its own expense. The wood inside may have become real, but the car itself has become false, forgettable.

So. The Fleetwood goes, but it barely stops, it doesn’t turn. It rides well enough, but the Grand Caravan I drove last week is better-isolated from impacts, even if a modern CTS isn’t quite as good as either. It isn’t a “good car” in any sense of the word, and in the years after its introduction, these old mid-Seventies Caddies slumped, rusted, and disintegrated their way from the suburbs to the ghettos to the roadsides and junkyards, delivering perhaps the final coffin nails to the brand’s embalming.

Why, then, do I love it so much? Why do I love its styling, its sheer sweep of sheetmetal, its unapologetic stretch past the borders of parking spots, common decency, and personal accountability? Why would I buy one myself, in a heartbeat, if I had a place to put it? Think of the men who played music on the deck of the Titanic as it sank. They knew their world was ending, they knew they would not live through the night, but while one was alive, one would conduct one’s self with decorum and a touch of style. It’s too much to ask of this Talisman that it be a talisman. There’s nothing magical about it. Rather, there’s something majestic. A sad majesty, the band on the Titanic, the lion in winter, the great general in defeat, holding on to his sword for one last moment. Once upon a time, Americans built these cars. Not good cars. Not great cars. Only sad, and majestic, and, in the final analysis, wonderful.

I firmly believe that it’s more fun to drive a (relatively) slow compact hatch fast than to drive a big, fast car well below its potential. I remain hopeful that someone will offer a car with five doors and rear-wheel-drive that weighs under 3,000 pounds. (I’d say under 2,700 pounds, but that’s clearly a pipe dream.) Then Cadillac put a CTS-V in my driveway for a week. A wagon with a manual transmission, no less. That Cadillac even offers such a combination warrants respect. The lure of the dark side has never been stronger.

The stealth fighter-inspired design of the second-generation CTS remains polarizing, if less so than the original. Love it or hate it, the car looks appropriate for its role. This particular CTS-V wagon makes no attempt to conceal its evil intent. A “Black Diamond Edition,” it is covered in sparkly black paint and shod with “satin graphite” wheels. The all-black appearance (save the huge yellow brake calipers) makes the car look like a development mule, but I don’t doubt its appeal for some people. Given the intended look, though, why not go all the way with a matte black finish for the body as well as the wheels? Some people (certainly not including myself) don’t care for the wagon’s lines, but no one will deny that they’re distinctive and clearly communicate a sporting intent.

When the 2008 CTS was introduced, its interior was the best GM had yet offered. The “cut and sewn” upholstered leatherette on the instrument panel and upper door panels seemed especially upscale. But GM and the rest of the industry have continued to advance, and given the V’s $60,000+ price tag the cabin isn’t quite up to snuff. In the V the satin-finished trim of the regular CTS has been replaced by piano black, and the latter doesn’t work as well with the other pieces. Having shiny black plastic, black-stained wood, and matte black plastic run side-by-side the full height of the center stack is simply too much. One of the two trim elements needs to be either toned down or eliminated. I didn’t care for the flimsy, overly plasticky feel of the door pulls even back in 2007 (and pointed this out to the designer at NAIAS). Notably, the more recently designed coupe has better door pulls. Finally, the dash-to-door fits are uneven and, as in the sedan, the sections of the rear seat fit together poorly.

Under Harley Earl and then Bill Mitchell, GM continually strove to make its sedans lower and lower. They would not approve of the CTS. To provide good sight lines over the high cowl, the seating position is a few inches higher than the traditional norm. While I had the V I drove a couple of Panameras, and the contrast with the much lower, much wider Porsches is striking. In its defense, Cadillac is under no mandate to make a sedan or (in this case) a wagon feel as much like a sports car as possible. Instead, from its relatively high perch the CTS feels commanding and powerful.

The Recaro seats optional in other Vs are standard in the Black Edition. (A salesman informed me that he’s rarely seen a V without them anyway.) Unlike those in most other GM cars, these seats retain four-way lumbar adjustments. Unfortunately, these adjustments are of little value as the lumbar bulge is overly narrow and sticks into the lower back rather than supporting it. To avoid this unpleasant sensation I adjusted the lumbar to do as little as possible. Despite this shortcoming, I’d advise the Recaros for the lateral support they provide. Both the thigh and side bolsters can be adjusted to provide a tight fit. A “sueded” covering on the steering wheel and shifter is a $300 option. I enjoyed the feel of the shifter, but never quite got used to the fuzzy steering wheel.

Oddly, the high seating position up front doesn’t translate to a comfortably positioned rear seat. The cushion feels small and, like most, it’s too low. Though the BMW 3-Series, Audi A4, and so forth do no better, the CTS is nearly as large as a 5-Series. The wagon’s cargo area similarly isn’t expansive, but a power tailgate provides easy access. A floor that can be employed as a cargo organizer effectively restrains groceries during aggressive maneuvers. Interior storage is grossly inadequate. My superzoom camera (styled like a dSLR, but not as large) fit in neither the glove compartment nor the center console, both of which are overly compartmentalized. Consequently it spent much of the week sliding about the passenger footwell.

Any shortcomings fall from mind once the supercharged 6.2-liter V8 is awakened with a pushbutton. With 556 horsepower at 6,100 RPM and 551 foot-pounds of torque at 3,800 RPM, it’s more than a match for the CTS-V wagon’s considerable 4,398 pounds. Acceleration is traction limited at low speeds, especially when the car is fitted with winter tires (as this one was). Luckily, it’s not hard to modulate the throttle and achieve reasonably drama-free launches. The first-generation CTS-V suffered from severe wheel hop. To solve that problem GM fitted half-shafts of differing mass to the new car. These oscillate at different frequencies when subjected to the full wrath of the V8.

At any speed the V8 responds strongly and immediately in a way that only a large engine can. And yet it doesn’t feel as astoundingly quick as the power figures suggest it should. As one passenger remarked, “it feels like only about 450 horsepower.” The car’s curb weight is one reason. Declining returns are another. The engine produces more power than the tires can transfer at lower speeds. To fully exploit the V’s extra power you’d have to drive well beyond the legal limit.

But the unexpected refinement of the engine is the primary culprit. The supercharger provides boost so smoothly that the engine doesn’t even feel boosted. In naturally-aspirated form in the Camaro GM’s 6.2-liter V8 can sound like it’s on the verge of self-destruction. These raw tones have been successfully suppressed in the CTS-V, leaving only a mild burble at low RPM, some pleasant mechanical noises in the mid-range, and a restrained roar at the high end. Cruising down the highway the exhaust is barely audible; what you do hear fits the character of the car and doesn’t begin to irritate. Some people will wish for a more expressive engine, but I fear that the result would be something like that in the Camaro. If the engine can’t scream sweetly, better that it cannot scream at all.

Under full throttle there’s a strong rush to the redline, but no surge or sense of a peak. Instead, if you’re not paying close attention it’s very easy to bang the limiter—which intervenes just 100 RPM past the horsepower peak. It’s not easy to pay attention, as it’s not possible to simultaneously watch both the modestly-sized tach and the road. The CTS-V badly needs a head-up display (HUD) like that offered in the Corvette and even some pedestrian GM vehicles like the GMC Acadia and Buick LaCrosse. Barring that, a RX-8-like beep when 500 RPM short of the redline would also work. As is, the LEDs that trace the tach needle’s movement start flashing at 5,200 RPM, but if you’re not already watching the tach you won’t notice this.

That the power peaks so close to the redline suggests that the engine could be much more powerful if only it could rev higher. In the Corvette ZR1, titanium intake valves and connecting rods do permit a 400 RPM bump. Add another pound-and-a-half of boost to the V’s nine, and the result is 638 horsepower. And even then the power peak remains 100 RPM short of the redline. Putting out under 100 horsepower per liter, the V’s engine simply isn’t working hard. Unlike more high-strung engines, it should last forever with proper care.

The shifter is not an issue. A vast improvement over that in the first-generation CTS-V, it has a satisfying level of notchiness and snicks with a moderate amount of effort and good precision from gear to gear. Given the limited traction at low speeds and low redline, it’s no surprise that the Tremec’s six gears are tall. First runs to 48, second to 72, third to 99. They’re also tightly spaced, with a ratio spread of only 4.2 between first and sixth (vs. 5.3 for the Aisin in the regular CTS and 8.0 for the seven-speed S-Tronic in the Audi S4). The big V8 is spinning a bit over 2,000 RPM at 70. At this speed, downshifting is rarely necessary.

The clutch doesn’t feel heavy unless you’re sitting at a light, where you can select neutral and relax. This said, after spending a few days in the V I nearly put my left foot through the floorboard in my Mazda Protege5. My heel-and-toeing skills aren’t what they should be. No matter-with the accelerator positioned much lower than the brake pedal it’s not a possibility in the V anyway. Those huge yellow calipers aren’t just for show—the CTS-V stops as well as it goes, and with a satisfyingly firm pedal feel.

Fuel economy? Well, even more than in other cars this depends on how you drive. During an especially hard stretch of driving the trip computer reported just a bit over seven miles-per-gallon, and quite often under ten. On the other hand, when hypermiling the V over a few suburban miles where my red light karma was good, I observed 22 (vs. 26 in a Lexus IS-F). I noted the same 22 during steady highway driving. When driving the V like a normal car around town I observed between 12 and 16 depending on the frequency of complete stops, supporting the EPA city rating of 14.

My observations on ride and handling must be qualified, for the tested car was wearing Pirelli winter tires that are likely squishier than the stock Michelin PS2s. This said, the steering, while still numb compared to that in a Panamera, has a more direct feel than that in the regular CTS. Feedback from the contact patches tickles attentive fingertips. Hit the stability control button on the steering wheel to active “Stabilitrak Competition Mode,” and the steering firms up while the electronic nannies are relaxed. But the resulting wooden feel makes the car feel heavier and less agile without doing much to enhance feedback.

It’s not necessary to rely on your fingertips for much anyway. The V prefers to be driven like a blunt instrument, but paradoxically a blunt instrument that can be driven with precision. You can throw it hard into a curve with total confidence of where it’s going to go. Guide it precisely through a curve with your fingertips? Save that for a different sort of car. As in other rear-wheel-drive GM cars, the seat of your pants will tell you pretty much all you need to know. The chassis feels so natural, and power oversteer builds so progressively, that the V can be driven from your gut. The center of rotation feels like its right under the driver’s seat.

Dive into a turn entirely off the gas, and the V understeers (though quite possibly less on its stock tires). A little gas easily evens out the chassis, and the desired degree of oversteer can be summoned up at will. The stability control seamlessly manages oversteer if you go too far. (Engage the “Competition Mode” or entirely turn the nannies off and it becomes clear how well the system works.) It manages understeer more obtrusively.

The magnetic ride control shocks, a GM innovation now also employed by Audi and Ferrari, very quickly adapt to road conditions. Since the shocks quickly move through their full range in either “Tour” or “Sport,” the difference between these two modes isn’t night and day. In “Sport” body motions and roll are a little more restrained, and the ride is a little more abrupt. In either mode the V doesn’t feel nearly as hardcore as its appearance and power figures suggest. Even in “Sport” mode there’s a modest amount of roll in turns. On the other hand, the car’s ride quality is actually better than my father’s regular CTS with the mid-level suspension, and much better than that in some other cars in the class (the Infiniti G37 especially comes to mind). The car is shockingly livable even on the awful roads around Detroit.

Can a $69,490 car be a bargain? A similarly-equipped BMW M3 lists for about $2,500 less. Adjusting for feature differences with TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool narrows the gap to under $1,000. This decision isn’t going to come down to price. Rather, power vs. precision. Around town the Cadillac has stronger, more immediate responses and so is generally more fun to drive, but the BMW has a more precise feel. To get similar power in a BMW, you must step up to the even heavier upcoming M5, which will likely cost about $100,000. If you’re looking for a wagon—well, no one else currently offers an ultra-high-performance wagon in the U.S. unless you count the Panamera. And if you have to ask the price of the Porsche…

All of these details don’t fully capture the essense of driving the V. It’s quite simply intoxicating, the immediacy and strength with which the engine reacts, the predictable competence and willingness of the chassis, all without any significant downsides save a thirst for premium unleaded and the endangerment of one’s license. On top of this, the entire experience has a seamless cohesiveness that’s rarely found in non-European cars. It’s certainly possible to drive the V casually. When not pushed the V drives just like a normal car, with no untoward noises, jitters, or heat. It’s almost too easy. Your grandmother could drive one and never have a clue about the machine’s potential. But once you’ve sampled this potential, the V’s allure can be hard to resist. All those extra pounds? Forgotten. The only thing that saved me: they insisted on having the car back at the end of the week.

Cadillac provided the vehicle, insurance and one tank of gas for this review.

Michael Karesh operates TrueDelta, an online source of automotive pricing and reliability data.

A large luxury SUV can’t be expected to make rational sense. As readers pointed out when commenting on Wednesday’s Lincoln Navigator review, anyone who needs the combination of interior space and towing capability the Navigator  and its arch-rival, the Cadillac Escalade, have on offer, could obtain the same functionality in a Ford Expedition or Chevrolet Tahoe / Suburban for a lot less money. For the Lincoln and Cadillac to be worth their loftier prices, they’d better deliver something above and beyond mere functionality. The Lincoln fell short in this regard, coming across as little more than a bechromed Ford. Might the Cadillac Escalade fare better?

Like the Navigator, the current Escalade is now in its fifth model year. So it’s not fresh. But the Cadillac’s more chiseled lines have aged better and it gets by with a more restrained application of chrome trim.

The grille is huge, but artfully shaped. It is not out of proportion given the size of the vehicle and faithfully advertises the power lurking within. The 22-inch-alloys (with center caps awaiting PDI) are out of proportion to the size of the vehicle, at least the regular wheelbase variant I tested. The double dubs better suit the extended wheelbase Escalade ESV. From the rear there’s little to distinguish the Escalade from the closely related Chevrolet and GMC SUVs. It could be worse: Cadillac’s designers could have drawn inspiration from the Family Truckster the way the designers of the first-generation Navigator did.

This generation of Escalade received a bespoke instrument panel. The styling is sufficiently premium and the switchgear, if not quite up to the $75,000 MSRP, comes closer than that in the Navigator. The Cadillac isn’t embarrassingly pedestrian inside.

The front seats could be better. Though blessed with power four-way lumbar adjustments, their convex contour provides no lateral support. They also feel a little undersized and unworthy of the vehicle they occupy. The Lincoln’s thrones are much larger and cushier. Visibility also isn’t quite as good in the Cadillac, as the base of the windshield is higher. But we are talking about the difference between very good and outstanding. As in the Lincoln there’s nowhere for the driver to properly rest a left foot. The only solution: rest it flat on the floor. While this might seem natural at the dinner table, it takes some getting used when driving a vehicle. The shifter is on the column rather than on the console, which makes operating the “tap up, tap down” rocker somewhat awkward. Since the rocker will be of most use in mountain driving, and even there only occasionally, this isn’t a deal breaker.

The second row is, like the first, undersized compared to that in the Lincoln. The third row, well, it’s simply ridiculous. The Escalade continues to employ a live rear axle, and this forces a high rear floor. So the third-row seat cushion is pretty much right on the floor. Adults sitting back might have enough headroom (if they’re under six feet), but they’ll find their knees above their elbows. The Navigator has a huge advantage here. Stepping up to the ESV only partially addresses the shortfall.

Cargo room is similarly impacted. There’s little of it behind the third-row seat. Adding injury to insult, the third row doesn’t fold to form a flat floor and must be removed to provide a competitive amount of cargo room. The Navigator is a much more functional vehicle. So are GM’s large “Lambda” crossovers, for that matter. (Rumor has it that the next Escalade will be Lambda-based.)

But, remember, this class of vehicle isn’t about functionality. Dip into the throttle, and the Escalade starts to make sense. The 6.2-liter V8 kicks out 403 horsepower at 5,700 rpm and 417 pound-feet of torque at 4,300 rpm. And these numbers aren’t the half of it. Even with so much power the Escalade isn’t a rocket ship—there’s too much mass for that. Where it really redeems itself is in how it sounds and feels. Even if acceleration isn’t shockingly quick, it is effortless. Unlike the Lincoln’s V8 this one never seems like its straining. It never had to jump down two or three ratios and then issue forth an unseemly roar. Not that the Escalade’s V8 is quiet; far from it. The big small block roars at full throttle, and audibly burbles much of the rest of the time. Some people might find this noise tiresome, but they won’t be interested in an Escalade anyway. The V8’s burble recalls fine watercraft more than anything on wheels, and in the process makes driving the Escalade a distinctive, and distinctively American, experience. For something to be a guilty pleasure it must be pleasurable, and prodding this powerplant is pleasurable.

On center the Escalade’s steering feels far too light and a touch loose. But helm the ute into a curve and effort builds naturally. Feedback through the seat of the pants is reassuring; the big SUV willingly goes where it’s pointed. Though certainly not predisposed to hoonery, give the Escalade your spurs and it responds “sure, why not?” In this mode a more conveniently located transmission control would be welcome. Compared to the Lincoln, the Cadillac flows with the road rather than fighting it. Even with its lower profile 285/45R22 tires the Escalade rides much more smoothly than its closest competitor. There’s no sense of the body shimmying atop its mounts. The standard “magnetic ride control” shocks that alter their firmness up to 1,000 times a second no doubt deserve some of the credit. But trick shocks can only do so much. GM seems to have put far more effort than Ford into suspension and body tuning. Despite its live rear axle and overboosted steering, the Escalade both rides and handles much better than the Navigator.

Cadillac, apparently aware of its vehicle’s more premium feel, charges heftily for it. Though the two vehicles I drove were comparably equipped, with an MSRP of $75,000 the Escalade listed for $12,000 more than the Navigator. Add another $3,200 for the extended wheelbase ESV (recommended). Running the pair through TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool finds that features account for only a few hundred dollars of this price difference. After this adjustment the Lincoln’s price advantage remains over $11,000. Oddly enough, the Chevrolet Tahoe LTZ (with a 5.3-liter V8 and 20s) also checks in about $11,000 below the Cadillac.

I’m not about to attempt a rational defense of the Cadillac Escalade. Cadillac has never marketed itself as a sensible purchase. Instead, it has always been an aspirational purchase, and an experience. With its size, its brash yet tastefully handsome styling, and its stonkin V8, the Escalade delivers what buyers in this segment are looking for. Driving it is a much different experience than driving a sports car or a high-end sedan, but it’s a rewarding experience nonetheless. Though not a place I’d care to live, I thoroughly enjoyed the visit.

Eric Breda at Cadillac of Novi provided the test vehicle. Eric can be reached at 248-476-4466.

Michael Karesh operates TrueDelta, an online source of car pricing and reliability data.

As I crest Monticello Motor Club’s Turn 17, I am speaking directly to you, the TTAC reader, through the magic of a complete video, data, and audio recording system installed in my six-speed manual CTS-V Coupe.

“I have an idea,” I say, as I hold the throttle pinned to the stop way past the braking markers, over the hill, down the back of the left-hander, the speedometer swinging well into the triple digits, tach reaching to redline. “I think… this section can be taken flat.”

Flat, as in flat-out, as in without the mild braking before Turn 17 recommended by the instructors at Monticello and practiced by all reasonable individuals. And, indeed, I make it over the crest pointed in nearly the right direction… but any experienced racer knows that traction on the back of a hill is never as good as traction on the front of the hill. In under a second I’ve reached the absolute maximum slip angle of the tires. I haven’t done it. I’ve overstepped my limits, and the limits of the car. To turn more is futile and perhaps deadly, since I am pointed at the grass and traveling at over one hundred miles per hour. If I have any steering dialed-in to the car when I touch that rough surface, I can cartwheel end over end in the fashion of Antonio Pizzonia in a Jag S-Type. Have to exit the track straight. What happens now?

If I hadn’t been a fan of the CTS-V Coupe before I exited the track at double Jimmy Carter’s favorite highway speed limit — and I wasn’t quite convinced at that point, honestly — I became one the moment I hit the rough ground. With three solid “THUMPS” I bounced along the grass. A 911 would have fought me; a lesser sedan might have whipped the steering wheel to and fro, tearing my hands away and with it my only control of the situation. The CTS-V, by contrast, was rock-solid and provided honest feedback, allowing me to guide the car in just the right direction as gently as possible.

In under sixty feet I was back on the track, still using “maintenance throttle”, and snagging a heel-and-toe double-downshift into the second-gear Turn 18. It maybe cost me a second and a half, and as the big supercharged mill catapulted me down the next straight, I heard the voice of a sweet female angel, asking me if I was okay. Oops. That’s no angel. That’s OnStar. The violence of my unplanned departure had triggered the V’s inertia sensors; it had also scrambled the video recorder, much to my dismay since I had remained rather McQueenishly mellow throughout the entire incident.

Okay. You guys all expected me to stir up some trouble at this event, right? Done. Let’s talk about the car, starting with the important stuff. Not everyone with whom I spoke was in complete agreement with me, but I believe the V Coupe is far easier to push on-track than its sedan counterpart. Here’s why. Although the Coupe shares a wheelbase with the sedan, it has a wider rear track and wider rear wheels. The net effect is more traction at the rear. This reduces wheelspin on exits, which in turn prevents overheating of the rather delicate street Michelins. Before you know it, you have a car that slides at the front during one’s third lap on-track, instead of one that slides at the rear. This, ironically, was my undoing; a little bit of hot-tire oversteer would have permitted me to nip through the right-hand sweep between 17 and 18, but the more stable Coupe simply gave up steering. That’s the safer way, and it’s why I feel many drivers will be quicker in the Coupe than in the sedan.

While the CTS Coupe’s appearance is tailor-made to generate controversy, it’s also a very “honest” coupe. Nearly every panel is different. The doors open electrically, as with a Corvette. I disagree with this; I think a solid handle would impart a quality feel, which is just as important as aesthetics. The roof is lower and the windshield is “faster”. The net effect for me is negative; I can’t get comfortable in the car with a helmet on. Give me the sedan, or better yet, the wagon. Those of you who are neither 6’2″ nor in the habit of wearing a top-vent Impact! helmet won’t mind.

This automobile is available with a six-speed manual transmission. Please, do us all a favor and purchase it with that transmission. While the automatic may be faster around the ‘Ring, in the real world it’s easily confused and on a track of less epic proportions it requires constant attention from the steering-wheel-mounted control buttons. You want the stick-shift, unless you live in Los Angeles or absolutely demand the ability to left-foot-brake at all times. In a rather bold and enthusiast-oriented move, Cadillac offers a black-wheel package that comes with yellow brake calipers. The wheels won’t show the brake dust, but the calipers sure as hell will. I’d go ahead and get the option anyway. Kudos to Cadillac, by the way, for doing what BMW won’t in the M3, namely, fit a decent set of brakes to the car.

The rest of the car is standard CTS-V: controversial interior made more so by the addition of the (recommended) Recaro buckets, center stack that has been replicated everywhere from LaCross to la Cruze, not-quite-convincing stitched-leather dash. I drove a 3.6 direct-injection V6 automatic on the way home from Monticello and in many ways preferred it to the V. If you want an automatic, the six is a much better dance partner and it’s far cheaper.

Which brings us to price. The Coupe is priced heads-up with the sedan at $62,990 plus a mandatory gas-guzzler charge. It really has no competition in the marketplace, so if you want one, feel free to take the plunge. I’d buy the wagon and pay the 200-pound weight penalty, since the Coupe is tight for me.

After the nice people at Cadillac pulled the grass out of my Coupe’s lower intake, they sucked up their courage and sent me back out. Naturally, I hauled ass straight to Turn 17… but a tiny lift of the throttle put weight on the tires and let me slide down the hill just the way Bob Lutz intended. If this were a print rag, I’d finish up by saying, “Time to fly the Coupe.”

Oops.

I have video and photos coming, so check back tomorrow!

What is luxury? In the American car market, that question doesn’t have an easy answer. Driver-focused performers like BMW’s 3-series sell well here, but so do feature-loaded versions of mass market sedans, like the Lexus ES. Blinged-out baroque still has its adherents, but as the Napa Valley hotel where the Cadillac CTS Coupe was launched proves, a more subtle, sophisticated version of luxury is gaining popularity as well, differentiated by the use of recycled materials and environmentally-friendly technologies. So where in this fragmented and changing category does the CTS Coupe belong?

The last time Cadillac sold a traditional coupe, it bore the heritage-laden Eldorado nameplate which, by its last year of sales in 2002, was grasping at the tatters of a long, once-proud legacy. The Eldorado name may not have launched the “Personal Luxury Coupe” segment (this honor goes to the Ford Thunderbird), but by the dawn of the new millenium, it was keeping the old-school, front-drive, waft-all-day luxury coupe flame alive. Barely.

In the eight years since the Eldorado got lost in the shuffle, the CTS nameplate has ushered in a new era at Cadillac. With the return of rear-wheel-drive and concessions to performance and dynamics, the brand seemed desperate to leave its legacy of large, squishy touring coupes behind. Unfortunately, this meant abandoning the coupe segment altogether, leaving a fundamental element of the brand unrealized for nearly a decade.

Until now. After a few bankruptcy-related false starts, the CTS Coupe that debuted at the 2008 Detroit Auto Show is now sitting in the forecourt of a $450/night hotel, looking nearly unchanged from concept form, and entirely at home. Which is to say, it looks good. In dark colors, it’s Darth Vader meets Don Draper: a symmetrically-creased exercise in sleek, bunker-windowed coupe-dom. From the shortened overhangs, to the faster windshield, to the langheck echoes of the gracefully curving C-pillars, Cadillac has taken the CTS design to what feels like its logical conclusion.

And though Cadillac aptly calls its Coupe the “ultimate expression” of its Art-and-Science styling, there are some pleasing echoes of Cadillac’s past baked into the design. The proportions are classic “Personal Luxury” coupe: kicked-back cabin, long doors, bold face, clean rear-quarter. Viewed side-on, there’s even a hint of Mitchell-era Eldorado about the angular C-pillar, and the rear-deck’s three peaked taillights (the middle of which apparently generates downforce) are as close as a Cadillac’s come to having tailfins since Mitchell took over. Only the shortness of the front and rear overhangs, and the almost cartoonish ratio of steel to glass give the proportions a more purposeful, modern feel.

The promise of this neo-classical look is, of course, that this Cadillac Coupe will do things that no two-door Caddy has done before. Though the two-inch lower roof and sharply-raked windshield are purely aesthetic changes, the shortened overhangs and one-inch wider rear track are meant to do more than introduce a pugnacious profile and gentle, organically-swelling rear fender bulges. Along with a revised axle ratio (3.73:1 replacing the sedan’s 3.42:1) and thicker rear stabilizer bar, these changes were made in hopes that the odd auto journalists might rehabilitate the old “Caddy that Zigs” tagline.

But before getting the chance to test the Coupe’s zigging ability, you have to get into the thing. Touch-button locks keep the exterior looking clean, and work well once you’re used to them. Inside, the interior is unchanged from the CTS sedan, meaning there’s a lot of design, a lot of materials, and a very adequate sensation of luxury. Here, more than anywhere else, Cadillac has a few things to learn from its choice of launch hotel, which managed to make reclaimed wood and rusting steel seem luxurious, and the Caddy’s interior seem downright garish.

Interior dimensions are predictably hampered by the Coupe’s crisply-tailored suit. At about six foot one, my head resolutely grazed the headliner until the driver’s seat was at its lowest setting. Even then, spirited driving over bumpy roads caused the occasional annoying head-tap. The rear bucket seats are surprisingly spacious… below shoulder-height. Hip and leg room are more than adequate, but head and shoulder room are non-existent for the post-pubescent. But then I don’t seem to remember Don Draper or Darth Vader ever volunteering their personal luxury coupes for carpooling duty.

Fire up the standard 3.6 liter V6, pop the shifter into drive, and the Coupe pulls into traffic with ease. The lower axle ratio is immediately noticeable when pulling away from stops, but probably only if you just got out of a CTS Sedan or Sportwagon. Don’t expect noisy burnouts though: the difference is manifested more as a slight annoyance with the sedan than a sense that the Coupe is a drooling, snarling beast. In fact, cruising through the small towns and curving roads of California’s wine country at the speed limit is a quiet, refined experience. The only thing missing from the smooth, revvy V6 is some soft V8 burble. Otherwise, this coupe has more horsepower (304) and only 27 lb-ft less torque than the old Eldo’s Northstar, and makes a great wafting companion. Things have changed in eight years, but Cadillac Coupes are still best when cruised graciously from luxurious destination to luxurious destination.

And what if a few curves appear? Slide the shifter towards the passenger to activate sport mode, and “turn off” the traction control, and the CTS loses its bourgeois decorum faster than a sorority girl at Señor Frogs. Though Cadillac does not re-map engines for sport-mode, the transmission changes alone are downright surprising. Not only will it hold a gear until you’ve wrung every last raspy gasp from the V6, but it’s far more aggressive in its downshifts than you’d expect. In fact, once in this so-called “competition mode” the drivetrain absolutely insists that you abuse the right pedal, punishing half-hearted pokes at the throttle and brakes with deep downshifts and soaring revs. Nail it hard, and it will stay right with you, keeping a low gear gear coming out of a corner, when other “sport modes” would have short-shifted mid-corner. Technically there are paddle shifters located behind the steering wheel, but most owners will either never know, or quickly forget that they’re there at all.

Unfortunately, the drivetrain’s playfulness is never quite matched by the steering and handing. In fairness, the steering is better weighted than other GM products, and the chassis (tested with FE3 sport suspension) is generally competent at both cruising and cornering. But with the engine and transmission begging for a spanking, it’s all too easy to find the CTS getting flummoxed. There’s grip aplenty from the optional summer tires and uprated suspension, but there’s no respite from the physics of nearly 4,000 pounds trying to hold onto the road. Thanks to the wider rear track, there’s little scope for tail-wagging, and you’ll probably find the Coupe pushing on its front tires as often as it slips its rears. Grab a line and power through a sweeper, and you’ll want for nothing from this loaded example. Try to string several smooth corners together, however, and unless you’re a truly seasoned driver, you’ll end up with more tossing and thrashing than you’ll get out of certain competitors. Weight, visibility and damping deficits keep this Cadillac firmly in the “competent” category of cornering coupes.

And somehow that’s quite alright. Sure, Cadillac wants to be perceived as the equal to a BMW or Mercedes, and clearly this Coupe could do more to flatter the driver around tight roads. But the CTS-V Coupe is being launched later this summer, and its extra 250-odd horsepower and adaptive suspension should fulfill the performance promise of a range-topping luxury coupe. Meanwhile, the standard CTS Coupe is available at a base $38,990, with prices ranging to our loaded tester’s $51,825. Like the Buick Regal we tested recently, the CTS Coupe shows GM’s new approach to luxury: Ride and handling that are refined for commuting duty yet up for some occasional fun, wrapped in a distinctively-styled, modern body.

Unlike the Regal, however, the CTS Coupe hits its styling cues to perfection, and manages to fuse the brand’s future to its past in terms of both style and abilities. It’s a car that makes a distinctive and undeniable fashion statement that you either love or hate. This is the kind of Cadillac that you’d buy after landing a big client, or crushing a nascent rebellion… and if it had been launched in the midst of a go-go economy, it would doubtless sell like hotcakes. In today’s brutally-competitive luxury market, however, it’s neither extra-refined and luxurious nor a therapeutic joy to fling around a windy road. As such it has the same work cut out for it that the CTS sedan still does, some 8 years after it was first launched.

Cadillac paid for our airfare and accommodation for this new product launch, including several delicious meals and an open bar. Since it took place in California’s tony Napa Valley, none of it was cheap.

Figuratively as well as literally, Bob Lutz’s work at GM is now done. Shortly before the towers fell (it seems so long ago) Rick Wagoner answered many an auto journalist’s prayers by recruiting the living legend to dramatically improve the company’s product development process and the cars it yields. In retiring (not for the first time, but probably for the last time), Lutz has declared this mission accomplished, with GM’s latest cars as proof. The Cadillac SRX 2.8 turbo is the most expensive—and so least cost-constrained—of these new cars. What does it tell us about what Lutz was able to accomplish, and about what work remains?

Historically, the “car guys” within the auto makers have been engineers. And yet Lutz, often proclaimed the ultimate “car guy,” started out in sales and marketing. No matter. Upon arriving at GM, he reduced the power of both marketing and engineering in favor of design. Marketers with questionable taste would no longer interfere. Engineers would no longer decide what could and could not be done. Designers would once again be free to execute their visions. So, if nothing else, the new SRX should look a lot better than the old one.

Not that this was a high bar to clear. Constraints imposed by borrowing heavily from the CTS sedan weren’t the only challenges faces by the designers of the original SRX. It was conceived in cluelessness, with even the vehicle’s basic proportions subject to much doubt. Lexus with its pioneering RX had opted for the chunkiness of an SUV. Should Cadillac do the same, or make the most of a rear-wheel-drive chassis with a longer, lower, more wagon-like shape? Ultimately they opted for the road less traveled—a route even the purveyor of ultimate driving machines dared not take—and paid the price. The original Cadillac SRX won buff book comparison tests. But it did not win the comparison tests that really mattered, and was greatly outsold by the Lexus.

Cadillac didn’t repeat this mistake (yet). For the second-generation SRX it has essentially taken the Lexus RX—chunky proportions, front-wheel-drive platform—and styled it like a Cadillac. Copy cat, cop out, or simply the right way to go? Perhaps all three—they’re not mutually exclusive.

With the new SRX, Cadillac has successfully transferred its Stealth fighter-influenced “art and science” aesthetic to the proportions people clearly prefer in a crossover. This is post-Lutz art and science, so the original’s severe forms have been softened to add some conventional beauty to the mix, but it’s still bolder than the competition and distinctively Cadillac. Look closely at the tail lights for a tasteful homage to the tasteless fins of Cadillac’s glory days. A caveat: wheels make a huge difference. Eighteens, the standard size, never looked so small. This exterior demands the optional 20s. Because of its proportions and those large wheels, the SRX looks like a compact crossover. But don’t let your eyes fool you—with an overall length of 190.3 inches, it’s even a few inches longer than the clearly midsize Lexus RX and Lincoln MKX, and about eight inches longer than the Audi Q5 and Volvo XC60.

You can save a bundle by opting for the roomier Chevrolet Equinox or GMC Terrain. But the extra cash for the Cadillac doesn’t only buy a more prestigious badge. The SRX is a half-sib to the mainstream crossovers, sharing some platform bits but not others. It does share a premium platform with the upcoming Saab 9-4X, and even the sound when closing the doors suggests that the Cadillac is a different class of vehicle.

Lutz wasn’t always a champion of interior quality. Under his watch Chrysler cranked out some of the industry’s chintziest cabins. But he saw the light between gigs, and Cadillac benefited most of all. With an upholstered IP, real wood trim, aromatic leather, and snazzy red, white, and blue instrument cluster, the new SRX is far nicer inside than the Equinox and Terrain. As it ought to be. This said, some of the knobs would benefit from a more premium surface and feel. Beyond materials, this is an attractively styled interior, with numerous artfully interesting details.

If only as much thought had gone into the driving position and seats as appears to have gone into the instrument cluster. As in other recent GM designs, the pillars are massive, the base of the windshield is in another timezone, and the beltline is relatively high. Consequences of giving the designers free rein? The beltline and raked windshield, most likely. But surely the A-pillars aren’t monstrous for aesthetic reasons. Or simply for safety reasons—those in the Volvo XC60 are much thinner. So why are they so thick? Bean counters deny requests for the highest strength steel? The engineers would have preferred thinner pillars, so something got in their way and was allowed to stay in their way. Thin pillars must not be a Lutz priority.

Positioning the IP and windshield so far away does enhance perceived roominess. But it also makes the SRX feel larger and less agile, an attribute which, Lutz or no Lutz, continues to typify GM vehicles. Add in the high rising beltline and thick pillars, and visibility from the driver’s seat—a key reason people buy this class of vehicle—isn’t up to the class norm. For backing up you’ll want the optional rearview monitor. An around-view monitor like that offered in Infiniti’s crossovers would provide a more complete picture of what’s going on outside the bunker.

Like those in the CTS, the SRX’s front seats don’t quite feel like luxury car seats. They’re too small and too firm for a luxury vehicle role, yet the bolsters are too widely spaced for a more sporting role. A deal killer for some physiques: the rock hard headrests jut far forward in the interest of whiplash protection. Competitors somehow avoid taking such extreme measures.

Rear seat passengers can get more amenities here than in an Equinox or Terrain, including climate controlled rear air vents and seat heaters. What they don’t get: as much rear legroom as in the Theta twins. And yet there’s still considerably more than most direct competitors offer. Unfortunately, the spec sheet isn’t everything. Many competitors have more comfortably positioned and shaped rear seats. Children also have an easier time seeing out of other crossovers; younger ones will find their view limited to treetops in the SRX. Then again, in an SRX with the optional dual screen video system they won’t be looking out the windows anyway. Cargo volume is competitive. A U-shaped rail for securing cargo looks nifty, but what’s the functional benefit?

The SRX’s standard 3.0-liter V6 kicks out 265 horsepower—at 6,950 RPM. The torque peak, where a much less impressive 223 foot-pounds reside, is a similarly lofty 5,100 RPM. Similar figures amazed the world two decades ago in the Acura NSX. And GM’s new 3.0 might have dazzled in a reworked Kappa sports car. But in a 4,200-pound SUV (4,400 with AWD) it’s out of its element. One gets the impression that GM had a much lower curb weight target for the new SRX (and a number of other recent vehicles), and then missed it by a few hundred pounds—not the sign of a well-functioning product development system. For the 2011 model year, GM has seen the light and yanked this engine from the similarly hefty Buick LaCrosse AWD in favor of the much stronger yet equally efficient 3.6. But the 3.0 soldiers on in the SRX, perhaps because a 3.6 would step on the toes of the optional 2.8-liter turbo.

The 295-horsepower 2.8-liter turbocharged V6 accords itself fairly well in the SRX. Because of the mass it must propel this engine never feels especially strong, but unlike the 3.0 it never feels sluggish or strained, either. Only those paying very close attention will be aware that the engine is boosted. Throttle response isn’t as sharp as it is in the best naturally aspirated engines, and there’s some surging and lulling under light throttle, but boost lag isn’t readily evident. Neither is torque steer—the boosted engine is only available with all-wheel-drive. Fuel economy ranged from 16 MPG in moderately aggressive driving to nearly 20 in casual mixed driving.

The biggest problem with the turbocharged engine: it adds $3,820 to the SRX’s price yet provides only marginally competitive performance and fuel economy in return. For this kind of cash GM should be offering a turbocharged 3.6 with specs like those of Lincoln’s EcoBoost 3.5. In which case a naturally aspirated 3.6 would make a fine base engine. The closest competitors are all fitted with 3.5s for a reason. Where was Lutz’s “car guy” influence when GM was specifying the SRX’s engines? Did he save his love for the Vs?

With the move from the old rear-drive platform to the new front-driver, handling clearly wasn’t going to be a top priority. After all, class-leading handling didn’t do much to make the original SRX a success. And so the SRX meets low expectations here. Steering effort isn’t too light, but nevertheless the overly large, overly thick steering wheel (Lutz’s personal preference?) communicates zero road feel. Need feedback? Turn the wheel and see how much the world beyond the distant windshield rotates. Between the “wide open spaces” driving position and this steering you can forget about forming an intimate connection with this machine. Whether he intended to or not, Lutz doesn’t appear to have done much to make GM’s cars more involving.

A shame, because in other ways GM’s suspension engineers have done surprisingly well with the hand they were dealt. The new SRX’s chassis feels more poised and tightly controlled than that of a Lexus RX, and leans less in turns. An active rear differential helps compensate for the SRX turbo’s 57/43 weight distribution by shunting torque to the outside wheel in turns, but just enough to keep understeer at bay. As in other GM applications of the trick diff you’ll need a loose road surface to induce oversteer via the throttle. This system is not nearly as entertaining as Acura’s SH-AWD system.

Even with the 20-inch wheels the SRX’s ride is absorbent, yet without the bobbling or floatiness that often afflicts softly-suspended SUVs. This outstanding ride-handling compromise might be partly due to the adaptive shocks included with all-wheel-drive on the top two trim levels (also the only trim levels where the turbo engine is offered). Noise levels are very low, but the quality of sound within a Lexus seems just beyond the grasp of GM’s engineers. It’s not just a matter of the sounds you keep out. You also need to let just enough of the right sounds in.

The first SRX proved that driving enthusiasts weren’t a profitable target. So as much as such enthusiasts would like a turbo 3.6 with more communicative steering and more supportive seats, these didn’t happen even with a “car guy” running the show, and aren’t likely to appear in the future. Instead, the new SRX logically pursues the non-enthusiasts who have been buying the Lexus RX, Acura MDX, and Lincoln MKX (yes, lots of X at this party). With product development funds running short, Cadillac wasn’t swinging for the fences this time around; in most respects they aimed for, and achieved, “good enough.”

What, then, will lead buyers to overlook the subpar visibility and opt for Cadillac’s brand of X? In the end, where is Lutz’s influence most evident? Not in anything that requires especially close cross-functional collaboration. Instead, the strengths of the new SRX are in styling and in interior ambiance, signs of a new GM where the designers lead and everyone else “makes it work.” Cadillac’s past successes often followed from prioritizing styling over practical considerations. Does the world now demand more thoroughly integrated and optimized vehicles, or will this work in their favor once again?

Cadillac provided the press-fleet vehicle, insurance and one tank of gas for this review

Michael Karesh owns and operates TrueDelta, an online source of automotive pricing and reliability data.

I’m too young to remember the 1970s, but I have recollections of a Cadillac-based abomination known as the “Castilian Fleetwood Estate Wagon.” Perhaps the recent success of Cadillac-based trucks made someone at the RenCen give the Cadillac Wagon a second look. Yet the CTS Sport Wagon isn’t a cobbled-up engineering afterthought, though it reeks of branding desperation: the American icon formerly known as the pinnacle of everything now goes for entry-level luxury success in a station wagon. And that’s why this mirage hailing from the days of Motorized Malaise has some ‘splaining to do.

But wagons have their purpose, especially in Europe. Not so much in America, though using the far-from-ungainly CTS sedan could change all that. Too bad this Estate’s hindquarters are more aesthetically challenged than a Cy Twombly retrospective. Taking the CTS’s bulky proportions to new heights, the Sport Wagon’s short and “fast” roofline sports a pointless quarter window and massively “slow” looking D-pillar. And much like half melted dinner candles in a gothic dungeon, the crystalline tail lamps are an asymmetric eyesore on an already overwrought posterior. Conversely, any wagon sold in the USA is inherently desirable to some. So the CTS Sport Wagon is indeed cool.

And the hits keep on coming, as the CTS Sport Wagon’s interior is the same as the sedan. The front seats are near perfect, while dash materials and buttonage are first rate at this price point. All the requisite wood grain bits and electronic gadgets are accounted for, OnStar or otherwise. GM should be proud of this interior, so let’s get to the heart of the beast.

The business end of any wagon lies south of the B-pillars. The backseat is large enough for two average adults, but the tall beltline and narrow doors add an undue amount of claustrophobia. The cargo area has enough right angles for box friendly loading, albeit not large enough for items held by yesteryear’s wood paneled wagons. And while there’s not enough real estate for an E-class like rear facing seat, the carpeted floor sports elegant metal accents and a shiny sill plate: rivaling the CTS’ dashboard for mid-market luxury supremacy.

No matter, fold the seats and luggage volume becomes a reasonable 58 cubic feet: not exactly striking fear into the Volvo V70, but other European Estates in this price range have some competition. Even the CTS Sport Wagon’s rearward visibility “looks” far better than the blocky pillars and sparse glass imply.

Sadly, relative to boosted Volvos, Audis, and V8 Benzes and Bimmers, the CTS Sport Wagon’s dynamic demeanor is downright uninspired. With the direct injected V6 in play, the CTS Sport Wagon feels downright sluggish until the tach swings above 4000 revolutions. And with no manual transmission option, the sloth like motions of the standard six-speed automatic make for a powertrain that’s like a hibernating bear woken up by a foolish hiker. Hit the gas when the light turns green and there’s a big snore underhood, followed by an explosion of accelerative mediocrity.

If today’s Cadillac can’t muster up class leading acceleration, at least the Germanic chassis and taut suspension are done right. Sporting the somewhat-famous “FE3” suspension moniker, the CTS Sport Wagon has more grip than any street going wagoneer ever needs, and keeps things flat and drama free in the suburbs. Push harder on highway sweepers and the estate still remains flat. Understeer is out there, somewhere, but reaching the CTS Sport Wagon’s upper limits takes dedication and blatant disregard for public safety: this wagon is made for the Nürburgring.

Even better, the Caddy’s steering feel is omnipresent and boundless, making the CTS Sport Wagon feel far smaller and lighter than the 4200lb curb weight suggests. Get some steam in the motor and this whip is an absolute hoot to drive. Just stay on smooth pavement.

Like every other brand with visions of BMW conquests, Cadillacs lose their composure when things get bumpy. FE3 fettling be damned, the 19-inch rolling stock cause more in-cabin jolt than an AMG E-class wagon, with not enough cornering prowess to compensate. If bad roads are a normal part of your commute, get the base suspension. Or wait for a Magnaride option.

No, really. The good stuff isn’t available on a normal Cadillac: Buick’s half-dead Lucerne gets a torque monster V8 and Magnaride, buyers of GM’s top brand must ante for the V-series. So the CTS Sport Wagon is another import wannabe struggling to find its raison d’être: while the components for success gather dust on GM’s shelves. Instead of making the best sedan on the market, Cadillac made a (limited production) station wagon.

Respectable performer or no, this is one more mistake in a series of the wrong moves: why not reincarnate the Cadillac Hearse next time, underwriting a Ghostbuster’s sequel for its introduction?

The Cadillac CTS Sportwagon joins a market others are abandoning, and I think it’s one of the smarter moves the brand can make. CUVs are wagons on stilts. If you don’t need to rock climb – and most of these can’t anyway – the closer the center of gravity is to the ground, the more fun you’re going to have driving. So, if you want to haul dogs, hockey equipment, or sky diving gear and enjoy the task, the sport wagon is the way to go.

Sadly, sport wagons have been going to way of the Woody. In American, at least. Mercedes likes ‘em tall. Volvo’s R is now just a style. Audi and BMW have very competitive offerings in this class, but Cadillac has them beat when it comes to, of all things, balance.We’re not talking optimum weight distribution for acumen on the track; the CTS Sportwagon is balanced for real life.

The test car was a black 3.6L V6 Premium with all-wheel drive. That means a 304 horsepower and 273 lb-ft of torque, which is decent, usable power despite the two tons of steel and glass you’ve got your hands on. A 3.0 V-6 is also available. The variable valve timing has become requisite in this class, so it probably doesn’t deserve a mention, except that this engine is, overall, so sherry-oak smooth. The push between 5 and 6 thousand RPMs is rewarding, inspiring heavy-footed antics behind the wheel.

Unfortunately, the chassis’ emphasis on competence over thrills doesn’t. With the optional sport suspension, the car trims the road nicely nicely enough, and there’s just enough rear-wheel bias and front play [Ed: foreplay?] to make the word ‘sport’ more than a marketing term. There is some roll and not enough juice to kick the back out, especially when configured with AWD. The tester had 19″ all season tires, so I’m thinking the chassis has more to offer. Comparable Audi and BMW models are probably more track friendly, but between church and the donut shop, you’re not going to notice.

What you will notice is the ride. The CTS sucks up the road’s imperfections like a much bigger vehicle. Cadillac has turned the settings slightly towards comfort – away from handling – and it feels like a very nice compromise. While trying to woo customers with European taste for rear storage, they have not forgotten they are Cadillac, and the Sportwagon is a rightfully comfy car.

The six-speed transmission is merely competent. It wasn’t over active, like some others that have grown a cog, but it didn’t always jump down when I wanted. I guess that’s why they make a manual mode. Still, I’m not convinced that I should know better than the computer.

My major quibble is with the brakes. They had a lot of play and didn’t follow the same application-of-force curve of every other modern vehicle I’ve driven in the last two years. They stop the wagon. They even stop it well. They just don’t stop it when you think they will. I eventually got used to the flatter curve, but I can’t say I ever liked it. Not necessarily a deal breaker, just odd.

The exterior is the best use yet of Cadillac’s box of knives design language.Like a Photoshopper extending a model’s legs to make a Tod’s ad more appealing, the wagon body’s lengthening of the roof and hip lines makes the CTS design more elegant, without losing any of its punch. This is Cadillac’s best looking car. In 30 years, anyway.

Likewise, the interior doesn’t let the rest of the vehicle down. Much. The wood trim does seem dowdy, but the alternative fake carbon fiber is alternatively fake. Otherwise, you’re in the kind of airport lounge no one has anymore: silvery bevels, sumptuous leather and worthy plastics. I like the air vents integrated into the center column and the navigation screen that gets out of the way. The wagon in question has a couple of features the notched brethren lack. The tailgate opens to about seven feet and closes with the touch of a button. The wagon bed has rails and knobs and ties and nets so you can configure the space for whatever it is you bought this thing to accommodate in the first place. Rear seats up, you’ve got 25 sq. feet of cargo area (more than the competition). Seats down gives you 53, which is mid-pack.

The estimated mileage is 18 city, 26 highway, 21 average. Also mid-pack, considering the horsepower advantage. Write up your order a different way (i.e. without the AWD and 3.6) and your mileage improves. And don’t say you don’t care. In my experience, people who buy wagons do care about such things, even if they are positioned to shell out 50 large for a barge.

Or not. The prevailing thought may be that wagon owners are a bit more practical than the coupe and sedan crowds, but I think wagoners are simply impatient. They don’t want to switch cars to do different things. They want one car that can do everything – plow down the highway with two bales of peat, seats heated, and ten speakers blaring. The CTS Sport Wagon can. It can’t exactly turn into an ice cream truck or hover craft with the flip of a switch, but close enough.

Since day one, the Cadillac SRX was a desperate underdog looking to dethrone the Lexus RX: Middle America’s CUV of choice. But the SRX was a muscular macho machine and the Lexus is an overstuffed Camry Wagon. Now, with a more mundane blueprint, Cadillac believes their latest SRX utility is “the new standard for luxury crossovers.” Plus, as the promotional material claims, it’s also the Cadillac of Crossovers. Whoa dude: what standard are they holding themselves to, and does anyone still believe Cadillac is the ultimate word in luxury?

Starting from the greenwashed Provoq concept of 2008, the SRX is the nicest interpretation of the brand’s jarring Art and Science aesthetic. The bumper’s pronounced wedge flows logically into Cadillac’s corporate grille and stacked headlight clusters. The fastback roofline drops behind the B-pillar, yet passenger ingress/egress isn’t affected. And while the large D-pillar and tailfin-esque rear lighting pods are undoubtedly Cadillac, something looks wrong.

GM Theta Platform uber alles: the wrong-wheel drive architectural hard points mean last year’s muscle makes way for clumsy and un-American. The side profile’s swage line works, until it draws you to the solid ventiports that don’t bother with a misleading grille. Even worse, it sports a GM Mark of Excellence logo that won’t come off with a screwdriver and WD-40. The tall front fenders are pure import-wannabe, with fake greenhouse extensions giving the illusion of a vehicle with a more unique blueprint. At least the optional 20-inch, six-lug hoops provide a tough stance, even if the dual exhausts look better than they sound.

But go inside, getting back to Cadillac’s “new standard” for the CUV-genre. The center stack is an upscale affair, even with DNA shared with lesser GM products. Too bad adjusting the long toothed vent registers creates more flex than the sails on a vintage racing boat in a typhoon. The door’s rich wood paneling is denied access to the dour dashboard and overwrought, plasticized console. Yet the SRX’s front buckets truly disappoint: the driver’s seat bottom has respectable bolstering and an M-series worthy pull out thigh support, but the passenger gets a hunk of foam with the consistency of a half-melted marshmallow. Then I clocked the badge on the tiller: this is supposed to be a Caddy?

But the SRX occasionally raises the bar: witness the multi-information panel in the speedometer. The HDMI-worthy resolution screen, clear interface and beautiful graphics at start-up are a clear winner for any car, at any price. The jeweled edges to the cluster double as redundant turn signal indicators: the green arrows of conventional wisdom meet their match, even if Cadillac retained them for the un-intuitive.

While the 3D graphics on the (optional) navigation system are ergo-friendly and work sans i-Drive interface, the BOSE beat box lacks the imaging qualities of the Lincoln MKX’s bullhorn-esque rear THX tweeters and the awesome thump of Lexus’ Mark Levinson-fettled cabins.

Not all is lost elsewhere. The SRX shines on the open road, though safe passage in a parking lot is no small feat with forward leaning, thick A-pillars blocking views of curbs, strollers and subcompacts. Smooth roads exploit negligible body roll at sane speeds. The whole experience is Teutonic, with less tendency to understeer than a car, much less the roly-poly Lexus RX. But the hydraulic based steering gear was a surprise: excellent on-center feel and brilliant communication in fast sweepers. So Cadillac made quite the corner carver. You know, for a CUV.

And the excuses continue underhood, as the 3.0L direct-injected V6 makes adequate thrust, provided stoplight drags with the RX350 aren’t in your future. On the plus side, torque steer (with 223lb-ft) on the 4300lb Caddy is a non-issue. While a smaller displacement, turbocharged and all-wheel drive alternative is en route later this year, Cadillac is going about this incorrectly: why go smaller and busier when a V8 is the logical choice?

Oh, that’s right: global designs, cost savings and all that jive. So the SRX makes due with everyone else’s engineering, rearing its ugly head in ride comfort. While road noise is Lexian at speeds, the big wheels, firm dampeners and clumsy CUV stance make for a crude ride on pothole-soaked urban roads. Forget about wafting like a real Caddy, the SRX has nothing on the RX350. And this grip/comfort trade off is reverse Viagra for the average CUV buyer.

Plus, with nearly a 20 cu-ft deficit in cargo space, the Lexus RX’s perennial success remains untouchable. Cadillac is a brand in desperation: from the standard leatherette interior to the gutless engine, the SRX looks for signs of life via blueprints from the best (worst?) intentions of others. So GM’s top brand is doomed to live in a Lexus-shaped shadow until they grow a pair, investing in a unique platform. And sweat every last detail in the process.

Every race must have a winner—even if it’s a Seniors Olympics, where competitors battle with oxygen tanks in tow. In this case, it’s Yank tanks: our American large luxury car shootout. Those of you with a knack for the process of elimination will already know that the Cadillac DTS is our winner. On the face of it, the Caddy doesn’t have the power or charisma of the Chrysler 300C, nor the traditional rear wheel-drive layout of Lincoln’s boxframed Town Car. But the DTS brings a much-needed karmic balance to our comparo. It’s the only car that approaches luxury. In other words, it offers at least a week’s worth of livability for an actual owner.

The DTS’s exterior is an automotive every-car from the side. From all other points of view, the Caddy’s angular creases, gaping grill and vestigial fins proudly proclaim “standard of the tasseled loafer wearing set.” I can respect that. The flagship’s styling might not be to everyone’s tastes, but at least it’s identifiable. There’s a lot of carbon dated dissonance here, thanks to combination of 1970s proportions and all-LED tail lamps, bi-xenon headlamps and shiny 18″ alloys.

This two-ton beast’s interior is this troika’s best. I realize that isn’t saying much. But it is saying something. The DTS’ leather is supple. The overall design is semi-modern and reasonably tasteful. The plastics are far behind Euro luxury standards, but they’re so far ahead of the 300C’s interior they’ve already crossed the international dateline. Yes, the cabin is a midwestern prairie of blandness. And the steering wheel is swizzle-stick thin (pulled from a 1990s Buick), but at least it’s heated.

In the back, passengers are suitably coddled on their way to Sunday lunch. The DTS’ rear seats are by far the best in this group. They offer bun warmers, cheek-friendly leather and what 300C and Town Car passengers won’t recognize (but will enjoy): padding. The Cadillac DTS’ rear A/C controls are basic, but they’re bound to make occupants feel a bit more special. At speed, the DTS is also the better place to sit. The 300C is just a bit too harsh and noisy for executive transport duty, and the Town Car manages to be a bit more penitential than presidential.

Aside from offering more occupant friendly proportions, the aging Northstar V8’s transverse placement precludes the sort of hoonery that’s easy to accomplish in the Chrysler 300 (donuts are possible, but only in reverse). With 295hp and 288 lb·ft going to the front wheels only, you’d be right to be concerned about torque steer. Fortunately, somehow, the usual front wheel-drive demons have been all but banished, leaving you only to fret about the lack of power compared to the 300C and fume over the dimwitted four-speed slushbox.

Even the five-seat version of the DTS (with the centre console) doesn’t include a manumatic function. Never mind . . . all four gear options are about as thrilling as a Kate Hudson chick flick. Put another, more positive way, the DTS seems to perform just about equally regardless of what gear it’s in. This brings us to the six-seater DTS, which anyone with memories of the 70s should avoid. Seriously, column shifters are like so last century, dude.

It may come as a surprise to readers (as it was to me) that the DTS actually ties with the 300C in the gadget shoot-out. The DTS doesn’t bring satellite TV to the party, but it does have some nice touches that a Euro shopper might expect: magnetic ride control, blind zone alerts, lane departure warning, and voice recognition.

Did I mention driving? Does it matter? If it does, when piloting the DTS, it’s important to keep a few things in mind. First, the Lusitania had a similar turning ratio. U-turns should be avoided like U-boats. In fact, plan any changes in direction miles ahead of time. Despite the bad road manners, it just about ties the Town Car in actual driving prowess. The zero to sixty sprint happens uneventfully, and corners are taken with relative ease. The best thing that can be said about the DTS’s performance—the only thing that needs saying– is that it’s composed and sedate.

The fact that the DTS is less common as a limo or airport shuttle is a huge benefit. We are talking about a car that costs approximately $50 to $60K—providing you can stop the Cadillac salesman from thanking God long enough to book the sale. Even so, the Cadillac is the winner of this shootout because its what an American luxury car is all about: size, presence, comfort and a V8. Sure Audi, BMW and Mercedes have nothing to worry about. I’d rather have a base LS460 than a loaded DTS. But if American luxury is what you want, the DTS is the way to go. While supplies last.

M, RS, V, F, AMG. The alpha alphabet represents five manufacturers’ best efforts to create something unique, exciting and memorable from their more prosaic mainstream motors. The resulting “performance tuned” sports sedans are so powerful, so capable, so versatile, that they’re the ground based equivalent of the all-weather fighter jets that battle for control of the skies. While the shibboleth “there’s no such thing as a bad car” applies here, there are always going to be winners and losers. And it’s our job to sort the wheat from the chaff.

Each car symbolizes the corporate culture that crafted it. Each car possesses a unique personality. And each vehicle has a clear mission profile. BMW’s M3 seeks to defend and extend proven road-going superiority through maximum thrust and maneuverability. Audi’s RS4 sets out to shoot down the BMW. Mercedes’ C63 AMG embarks on a low-level bombing run. Cadillac’s CTS-V simply wants to defend its home airspace. And the Lexus IS-F tries to prove it can create the world’s fastest luxury jet.

I was privileged to drive these cars. Despite the universal G-inspired facial rictus, I walked away liking some of these uber sedans more than others. In the final analysis, my preferences stem as much from my own personality as they do from each car’s aesthetics, ergonomics and driving dynamics. I’m a Type-A aviator that breaks things for a living and abhors mediocrity. Mea culpa. So what follows is Capt. Mike’s ultimate guide to $60K super sedans. Nothing more. Nothing less.

5th Place — Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG

If you think it’s OK to buy a car for its engine, the C63 is a highly defensible choice. The AMG-fettled V8 generates 451 bhp @ 6,800 rpm. Even in this highly-horsed company, that’s an awful lot of thrust. There’s nothing wrong with the way the mighty Mercedes mill propels pistonheads towards perdition. Equally important, the C63′s sonic signature is the best of our fearsome five. It bellows and roars with the best of them. In fact, it IS the best of them, if unbridled aural sex is your thing.

Did I mention the C63′s deeply contoured Recaro seats, or an automatic transmission that snaps off gearshifts like a high-speed Nikon camera changes frames?  Unfortunately, the C63′s interior falls well short of its natural competitors’ cabins. The C63′s plastics are top notch and the switch actions are sublime. But something’s missing. Some sign that the librarian is about to take off her cheap plastic glasses, shake loose her hair and muss yours.

You really lose faith when you steer the car; the C63 AMG doesn’t mask its weight like the others super sedans. The helm precision delivered by every other car in the comparo is notably absent in the C63 AMG. Sure, you can throw this bad boy around. And it’s easy enough to hang the tail out in clouds of tire smoke. But the Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG feels a bit like the world’s fastest, best-handling Mustang.

Theme song: “Deuces Wild” by Link Wray

4th Place — Lexus IS-F

The Lexus IS-F lacks a manual transmission, looks odd and offers less badge appeal than a Trans Am. However, focusing on these elements detracts from the IS-F’s amazing accomplishment: straight out of the box, the Japanese luxury brand’s first F is the fastest AND most comfortable sports sedan money can buy.

All the other cars in this comparison seek that hard edge, that extreme sportiness that proclaims them the King of the ’Ring. The Lexus just sits back quietly and invites you to enjoy a surround-sound journey into the world of 416 hp (@ 6,600 rpm).

Around town, the IS-F’s V8 remains hushed and tranquil. Slam down the pedal, crest 3,000 rpm and the exhaust baffles open. All Heaven breaks loose. Although the Lexus IS-F is every bit as capable in the corners as, gulp, the BMW M3, the smooth ride remains.

In this group, the IS-F is the car you’d choose to drive from say, Atlanta to Providence, RI. But it’s not the car that would whisper in your ear, “Before we park up, there’s this nice little twisty road out by the reservoir . . . .”

Theme song: “Don’t Touch my Hat” by Lyle Lovett

3rd Place — Audi RS4

The Audi RS4 is the oldest car here. Not that you’d not know from looking at it. The RS4′s creases, gigantic snout and look-at me-bulges are all of a piece, but it’s increasingly difficult to decide what whole the parts are supposed to form. The RS4′s cabin holds the top slot for fit and finish. Sad to say (and see), the RS4′s omnipresent grays lack the Caddy’s joie de vivre and the BMW’s technologie mach frei.

Fire it up, push the RS4′s “S” button and it’s like you’ve poked a dozing tiger with a pointy stick. It’s ferociously pissed and it’s not even awake yet. When Ingolsdtadt’s 420 hp (@ 7,500 rpmm) V8 rouses from its slumber, you’ve got the proverbial tiger by an unwagging tail. And it’s got you by the balls. There may be a harsher riding sports sedans (cough, GT-R, cough), but it’s not in this group.

Yes, the RS4 has genuine steering feel. Yes, you can drive it like a Porsche C4S: just point and shoot. But there’s no excuse for a $60K German luxury carmaker’s sports sedan to offer so little luxury.

Theme song: “Hurts So Good” by Herr John Cougar Mellencamp

2nd Place — BMW M3

The BMW M3 was pipped to the post by the Cadillac CTS-V for one main reason: too much technology. I’m a man whose world is defined by acronyms, who depends on computers to keep me alive. Yet I got lost in the e-gadgetry foisted upon the Bimmer’s 414 hp (@ 8,300 rpm) V8 chassis. iDrive, MDrive, handling nannies, traction nannies and an ECU smart enough to clone dinosaurs on its own—the Bimmer’s brain created a corner carving concert that made it a the consummate sports sedan. But somewhere along the line it lost some it its character.

No question: that spark of genius remains buried deep within the M3′s box of tricks; the spirit of the original E30 M3 struggles to get out. When I stopped fiddling with all the gadgets, set everything to automatic and let loose the dogs of war, I could just about recapture those glory days, glory days, glory days.

Which is a bit like complaining that watching “Battlestar Gallactica” is never as good as it was the first time. The BMW M3 was, is, and most likely will be the most feelsome sports sedan in the world. Those who prefer finesse to raw thrills are free to transpose my top two choices without any debate. Well, from me.

Theme song: I take Beethoven’s fifth.

1st Place — Cadillac CTS-V (Manual)

The other mad machines in this comparo made the sheetmetal leap from mainstream to insanestream via louvers, brake ducts, spoilers, exhaust pipes and more exhaust pipes. The Cadillac CTS-V simply adds some chrome to the aggressive original (v. 2) design and meshes around with the front end. Inside, the Caddy proves once and for all (unfortunately) that General Motors can make a class-leading interior. Taken as a whole, the Cadillac CTS-V comes across as the brash American, fitness-trained by Hollywood’s best, wearing a perfectly tailored who’s-the-[Hugo]-boss suit.

When the pinks are on the line, the ultimate Caddy delivers the goods. At our 60 large price point, the Cadillac CTS-V has 100 bhp worth of extra Bimmer-bashing oomph under the bonnet. The 556 hp (@ 6,100 rpm) rip out of the back wheels, while the engine snarls with enough ferocity to send the Germans to the local tuning shop for some fortifying kaffe und kuchen.

But it doesn’t stop there and neither do you. The CTS-V’s gearbox (automatic or manual), suspension and brakes may lack the M3′s delicacy of touch, but they work with equal harmony and precision. This is one of those rare cars that creates confidence even as it unleashes accelerative and lateral mayhem.

Theme song: anything by Stevie Ray Vaughan.

Breathe. Remember this when you drive the Cadillac CTS-V. No matter what happens, continue to breathe, lest you fall victim to what us aviators call G-LOCing, or G-Force Loss-of-Consciousness. Steady, rhythmic breaths will help your body cope with the stresses induced by a four-door sedan capable of hurtling your fragile, carbon based body into speeds that challenge the Theory of Relativity. Entering hyperspace, where the gravity wells of passing stars actually start to affect the navigation system of the CTS-V, you might forget this simple fact, pass out, and crash the American-built sports sedan that beats its German competitors into submission.

The 2009 Cadillac CTS-V warns you about its evil intentions with a niftier mesh grill (from the same suppliers that gave the Bentley Continental its garish nose), a power bulge, six-piston brake calipers with vented disks peeking out from polished aluminum rims, and a lip spoiler doubling as the brake light. The mods give the high-test V just enough visual octane to separate it from the stunning base model. The CTS-V’s ice cold Americana makes the BMW M3 and Audi RS4 look like Solid Gold dancers.

The CTS-V offers one of the most interesting and beautiful automotive interiors on the market, at any price. The two-tone black and beige interior [not shown here] mocks the dour Europeans with its elegance, while the polished black trim, high quality plastics, and unusual yet effective placement of secondary controls delight the senses. The CTS-V provides the kind of mass market elegance previously restricted to Jaguar XF drivers.

To wit: the CTS’ designers have placed the heated seat controls at the bottom of the control stack with their own LCD screen control, angled towards the occupant. The set-up combines deft ergonomics with a brand-appropriate touch of class. The Cadillac CTS-V’s chrome stereo controls sit below a polished clock. They’re far more user-friendly than BMW’s iDrive (you nuts?) or Audi’s MMI (My Mental Ignorance?). The needles in the Caddy’s instrument cluster contain combat cool red LED chaser lights that enable mission critical visual scanning.

The Cadillac CTS-V’s start button awakens a 556 bhp supercharged 6.2L LSA V-8 engine, derived from the LS9 powerplant used in the “Blue Devil” Corvette ZR-1. The burble coming out the Caddy’s back end mimics muscle cars of old and Mercedes C63 AMG of today. On a cold Dallas day, pure malice tumbled from the CTS-V’s twin tips, turning into a dragon-like fog. Once the engine warmed, the distant sound of detonating explosives settled into a smooth purr.

As we departed Lemmon Ave. and headed for the interstate, the CTS-V’s automatic transmission grabbed gears as smoothly as the Rifleman spinning his weapon. Just 3.9 seconds later I was breaking the legal limit. A mere 0.1 seconds after that, I started using fighter jet techniques to maintain consciousness. Peaceful negotiations had broken down inside this Caddy’s power bulge. Somewhere beyond the horizon, small countries trembled in fear.

The recently demobilized GM Performance Vehicle Operations team have banished the driveline shunt that turned the previous generation CTS-V into a cruel joke. Leaving . . . the rush. The sheer magnitude of the event unleashed by pressing a simple plastic pedal left me giddy with go-fast. The CTS-V’s torque could talk softly but it carried one hell of a big stick.

This is the part of the review where I say an over-engined American car falls off the edge of the world—as poor steering, bad brakes and dubious chassis control conspire against life, liberty and the pursuit of German sports sedans. Not so slow, Mr. Bond. Assaulting the curves of a certain park north of downtown Dallas, I could find no fault with what PVO hath wrought. The CTS-V’s rear end stayed planted and controllable in all situations, and there were plenty of ‘em. If the electronic nannies ever cut in, I couldn’t tell.

I repeat: the CTS-V is no Duke of Hazard SRT-8 tail-happy monster. The CTS-V carves the time-space continuum into finer and finer slices with genuine finesse. From razor sharp turn-in to graceful tenacious through the sweepers, the Cadillac CTS-V knows the fastest way from point A to point B is any damn way you please. It never fails to flatter the sporting driver.

The only chink in the CTS-V’s armor: slightly over-light steering. In this it only fails in comparison to . . . need I mention any names? No, I don’t. The Cadillac CTS-V is its own machine. It’s also the final realization of all those previously po-faced Cadillac claims of world class performance prowess. Whether that sort of automotive glory was a worthy goal for the Cadillac brand is an open question. But as a swan song, the 2009 Cadillac CTS-V forces the competition to play follow my lieder. Put another way, if GM has jumped the shark, the CTS-V represents the apogee of that lamentable leap.

[Look out for MS sports sedan comparo: Cadillac CTS-V vs. Mercedes C63 AMG vs. Audi RS4 vs. BMW M3 vs. Lexus IS-F.]

History records an era when a Cadillac was a no-compromise choice for well-heeled individuals seeking perfection. I remember the original import-fighting Seville’s refreshing blend of global proportions with acres of unabashed Cadillac style. What followed—neglect and shameless down market downplays– left Cadillac oblivious to its former “Standard of the World” designation. So it’s no surprise that the latest STS, nee Seville, doesn’t deserve to wear the crested wreath.

The STS’s new grill evokes images of a polyester-clad used car salesman’s teeth-laden, insincere smile. The afterthought fender venti-ports are his suit. Other than that, there’s nothing memorable about the top-drawer Caddy’s sheetmetal. Sure, the watered-down cues from the last-gen CTS make for a handsome shape. But where the old CTS was a shot of Jägermeister to Johnny Walker entry-level luxo sedans, the STS’ conservative contours are a lukewarm bottle of piss.

In fact, the STS’ down market styling influences bring to mind of another silent reminder of GM’s ham-fisted product planning: the Oldsmobile Aurora. Both top-flight sedans paved the way for a new generation of American luxury. But the uber-Olds got a po-faced Alero makeover. Which nobody bought. Ditto the STS, without the plastic surgeon’s scalpel.

For all of GM’s talk of world-class interiors, the new-for-‘08 STS still has the shittiest cabin in its class. The vent registers’ flimsy actions are worthy of Aveo real estate. The console, while positively Malibuian, fails to coddle like the padded, stitched panels on the Lexus GS. The only touch-point more pedestrian than the door panel’s northern hemisphere: the hard plastic that envelops the gauge cluster, forcing the driver to make skin contact with Lumina-grade goodness with each activation of the keyless ignition system. This is a forty-five thousand dollar luxury car?

The STS’ leather looks, feels and smells worthy of the under-20k compact crowd. Even worse, front passengers get a flashback to the compromised floor pan of yesteryear’s Camaro: the bloated transmission tunnel pinches foot space and  adds claustrophobia to an otherwise inhospitable atmos. If the sensory disappointments haven’t set a nail in the STS’ coffin, the flat and flaccid BOSE audio numbs your ears with eight over-hyped, underperforming drivers. Let’s be clear: if this Caddy’s interior could talk, it’d win TTAC’s Bob Lutz award.

Thankfully the STS’ respectable underpinnings hail from the GM sigma platform, which made the CTS an American hero. Too bad the dynamic dyslexia turns this platform’s inherent “FTW” attitude into a “WTF” blend of compromises. In true Detroit fashion that means the ride isn’t half bad for a sports sedan wannabe. The cruise is plush and confident, without the mack-daddy purpose of its DTS cousin. Pavement joints, potholes and parking lot speed bumps never stand a chance.

Which leads to the inevitable trade-off. Feed the STS a corner and you’re done; inescapable understeer and prodigious body roll are your partners in stupidity. The saving grace is a fairly neutral rear wheel-drive orientation– that feels like a milquetoast E-Class Merc at anything less than 8/10ths. Our tester’s all-wheel-drive added tenacious grip; white loafer-wearing snow birds will be thrilled.

The compromised Caddy gets worse under the hood. The STS’ standard-issue 3.6-liter V6 is hot for its direct-injected torque peak (at a sky-high 5200rpm). In other words, the engine creates a brand and model-dishonest torque curve; wafters needs not apply. Thankfully, the six-pot delivers the power in a strictly linear fashion. Miserably, the six-speed autobox’s oddly spaced one-two gear interrupts the smooth and righteous application of power.

Add this bewildered forward propulsion to the mixed bag suspension and you get an anticlimactic blend of an attention-seeking engine and buzz-killing corner-scrub. Much like the CTS, the STS needs the real American spirit generated by the small-block V8s found in far cheaper GM sedans.

In fairness, the STS has an impressive options list to compensate. The model offers everything from Magnaride dampeners, to a locking rear differential, to flashy Brembo stoppers. Some require the (sorely needed) Northstar V8 and a serious chunk of change. Or perhaps the supercharged STS V-series for a cool eighty grand? Didn’t think so.

On paper, the STS matches the imports at many hotly-contested price points. There’s the GS350-alternative discussed here, and an AMG E-class fighter up top. But the cheap bones of the STS V6 prove that this Caddy is out of its league, minor or major.

Rumor has it that RenCen is resolute: Caddy’s future lies downmarket. The STS is on deathwatch– making way for a hungry rookie with a soulful V8. The Hyundai Genesis could well be the STS re-incarnate, ready to punch the luxo-sedan market in the solar plexus. In theory, the STS coulda been a contender. But reality sucks, and the Cadillac STS’s irrelevance hits home at first glance. So if it’s on the chopping block, good riddance to bad rubbish.

[CarMax provided the vehicle reviewed, insurance and a tank of gas]

The CTS’s exterior has all the trappings of a modern luxury car. It's dripping with shine and sparkle– like it just stepped out of some kind of chromium-shower. The massive grille overtakes the entire front of the car, sporting a brash design language. You might just call the car vulgar and gaudy, like a pair of rhinestone-covered Gucci sunglasses. Or you could say that it's resolutely nouveau-riche.

But step back and admire the profile and the back end, and the CTS is undeniably elegant. The first generation CTS, Cadillac's exercise in "ultra-modern" styling, mimicked the F-117A stealth jet (which entered service in 1983). But it was starved for details. The “new” CTS rights the old wrongs. I'm ashamed that I like the thin chrome vent on the fender because its fine lines balance the slab-sided sheetmetal. Same goes for the C-Pillar. Yes, it's as abrupt and sharp as stiletto glinting in a dark alley. But the pillar gives the car's angled motif new definition and meaning.

The deal sealer/deal breaker: does the CTS stand out on the road? In 1959, you'd have to be blind [from snacking on lead paint chips] to confuse a Cadillac Eldorado with anything else. By this metric, the Cadillac CTS comes up short. While it's far more than another generic sedan, it fails the "mom" test. Would Mom know, on sight, that the CTS is a Cadillac? Even when considering a wider demographic, the odds of the CTS garnering quintessential Caddy props are none to slim.

And then there's the interior. When peering into a CTS through the window of an example parked outside the geriatric specialist's office super cool young person nightclub 7-11, the cabin looks exceptional. In both appearance and execution, it's GM’s best effort in decades. The pleather covering the CTS' dash, finished with "French-stitching," and the charming chrome chevron symbols on the seats embody the interior’s tasteful elegance. The design is miles ahead of most competitors, and the build quality is a lot more than merely adequate. If this was an interior from another manufacturer, we'd be all set.

But it’s a Cadillac. It's supposed to embody and project superiority. The press kit boasts that "world-class was the target. There was no plan B." So why do some of the buttons feel Impala flimsy? Why does the analog clock look only slightly more classy than a Chinatown Fauxlex? What's up with the 1992 font on the buttons and shift-gate?

When it comes to driving, the CTS is the un-Caddy. Fire-up the silent spinning 3.6-liter six. Mash the gas and the 263-horse base engine growls with accelerative intent. Click the shifter into manual mode, hold those revs, and the needle races to redline like a Civil War veteran sprinting the final 100 yards to his homestead. Let loose the dogs of Detroit, explore the outer reaches of the torquey powerband, and the CTS simply annihilates the asphalt. Unless you've got Stirling Moss in your family tree, this is not your grandfather's anything. 

Without the sports-package, you get a King David suspension, neatly walking the line between luxury pampering and corner-carving hoonery. The CTS will soak-up most of the nasty stuff under foot and then romp through the twisties like a sharp-toed greyhound. The steering strikes a similar balance. The CTS isn't a Lotus Elise (a rabidly unfair comparison), but neither is it a one-finger driver.

In sum… This is where things get uncomfortable. The CTS is 96 percent there. The question is, where? What is this thing? Before you hit the comment box suggesting I take some Valium and crank-up the Pink Floyd, hear me out. The CTS is an almost perfectly executed automobile. But the bigger issue (if the smaller percentage) is the car's identity crisis.

Is the CTS a luxury car? A sports sedan? It's great at both but magnificent at neither. So we're left with a good looking, comfortable, fun-to-drive American sedan. A solid sales hit. But a car brand can't sustain itself (or keep buyers coming back for more) without some kind of identity. As GM's great hope for the once triumphant, archetypal Cadillac brand, the CTS needs to be more than 96 percent something. It needs to be 100 percent Cadillac. And that it ain’t.

The CTS’ reworked exterior is certainly up to the challenge. The new model’s combination of refinement and muscularity kicks the competition in their collective crotch. While plagued with the same sky-high hemline and buffalo butt of the previous iteration, the new CTS benefits from two inches extra length at both ends. The cutlines– complete with muscular edges, fat flares and hot-rod pipes– harmonize more tunefully than a motorcoach of drunken Divas. 

There are some jarring notes. The CTS’ headlights emulate the rear’s subtle tail-finning– unknowingly echoing the uneven panel gaps of Regan-era Fleetwoods. Though the CTS’ grille and deck lid trimmings look suitably Lexian, their childishly incorrect proportions mar otherwise admirable restraint. The CTS looks even more nose-heavy than before; an effect that’s somewhat hidden by the affectation du jour (side portals) and the grill’s XXL orthodontia.

GM Car Czar Bob Lutz has been trash-talking non-trashy interiors since he assumed the throne in ’02. Word! From the CTS’ perfectly executed dashtop stitching to its quality polymers, soft touch buttonage and rich leather hides, Caddy-inhabiting sybarites can finally relax. Combined with intuitive ergonomics and minimal electronic interference, the CTS cabin tells its technocratic competition to take a hike– unless their denizens are looking for Bluetooth connectivity. (Oops.)

Optional woodgrain, white accent lighting (cough, Lexus) and a panoramic roof with a mesh-textured shade kick it up a notch. The BOSE upgrade gets the party started with a 40-gig hard drive, while the navigationally challenged get Pimp C’d with an eight-inch TV screen jumpin’ out the dash. Put it all together and you know why Cadillac is the artist formerly known as the “Standard of The World,” and why Hip-Hop heroes never lost faith in the first place.

Crisply-tailored sheetmetal. An automotive interior that makes a mockery of sterile Japanese and dour German cabins. All the CTS needs is a set of driving dynamics as relaxing as a weekend at a Scottsdale spa and it'd be mission accomplished. And we’d pronounce the CTS ready to lope to the head of the pack. Sigh. 

Obviously, hardcore corner-carvers need not apply. Even when equipped with the Nürburgring-fettled “Summer Tire Performance Package,” the CTS doesn’t have the goods to entice performance-minded drivers out of Bavaria’s finest. Not that the sportiest of CTS handles poorly; its meatier gumballs and firmer underpinnings make for quick and controllable transitions. The steering provides reasonable progress reports. And the posi-traction axle enables fast exits. 

That’s fine as far as it goes– which isn’t as far or as fast as BMW's 335i. But it’s exactly what the doctor didn’t order. Realtors and such will opt for the CTS sitting on all-season 17’s, a relatively mellow suspension and no LSD (don’t know, don’t ask). Here the CTS lacks confidence-inspiring responses and overlooks the stress-killing ride normally associated with the brand. The base CTS isn’t skittish but the aluminum-intensive suspension’s bump absorption feels… cheap.

In terms of forward progress, the CTS’ direct-injected 3.6-liter powertrain offers one forward gear for every combustion chamber. It sounds plenty poke-intensive on paper: 304hp and zero to 60mph in under six seconds can’t be all wrong. But it feels wrong. What’s required: effortless wafting. What's presented: endless frustration. The CTS struggles to build steam under its 3900 lbs. frame.

Combined with a lazy cog swapper and slow tip-in, the V6 feels soft on the bottom, mushy in the middle and timid up top. Factor in a power peak above 6000rpm and the CTS is a disappointment for a brand internationally known for massive torque and turbine-like acceleration. While this $47k whip hits all the other buttons for a proper American luxury car, it’s begging for a destroked and detuned LS3 V8 to round out the package–  and the fuel economy wouldn't be significantly worse.

The Cadillac CTS is a beautiful, well-appointed machine with its heart in the wrong place. Once again, the brand’s guardians decided to chase highly-tuned European sports sedans instead of returning to the simple values that made Cadillacs– including the Escalade– American icons. Still, no question: the CTS represents genuine progress for the Cadillac brand. Minus the engine and suspension mistakes, they're right where they should have been 15 years ago. 

Yes, well, first impressions last. Here’s the long and tall of it: the SRX looks more like a station wagon than an SUV, albeit a very BIG station wagon. From the front, the SRX wears a surprisingly demure version of Caddy’s spizzarkle prow. From any other angle, the vehicle’s “Art and Science” creases work at cross-purposes to a distinctly disjointed multi-level assortment of window shapes. There are some strange details: fly-eyed headlights, boomerang taillight and the like. Overall, the genre-straddling SRX has a lot of generic GM about it. At best, it’s more distinctive than attractive.  

And so to the interior.

The SRX’ center console benefits from a much needed makeover. The old console’s central feature— a large, featureless letter box (CD and DVD slot)— has disappeared. The display screen assumes its rightful place mid-dash, with an undersized analog clock above and two oversized rotary controls climate control buttons below. A chrome strip surrounds the pod and the new, intersecting gauges. A wood strip (complete with hidden dash cubby) bisects the cabin. 

In general, the ’07 SRX’ fit, finish and softer, [partially] hand crafted materials are a cut above the previous model’s. In specific, details bedevil. The thin plastic door pockets still flex when you insert road supplies. The trim surrounding the vent rings reflects straight into the oversized side mirrors. The seat belt attaches to the seat instead of the B-pillar, eliminating adjustment and inviting decapitation for shorter drivers.

The SRX’ touch screen navigation system is a disaster. The screen graphics are crude. The voice prompts are unclear and imprecise, suggesting turns on roads that merely curved (once putting us on the Blue Ridge Parkway with no exit to our destination). In contrast, the [optional] Bose 5.1 Cabin Surround DVD-based digital audio system is a glorious device. Played through the SRX’ 10 speakers, Pink Floyd never sounded so hallucinogenic.

The SRX’ intrusive transmission tunnel renders the second row quad (not quint) compatible. Despite the Caddy’s considerable length, the SRX’ third row is best suited to pre-pubescent children who like to hide in cupboards. On the positive side, the process of getting into the way back is so tortuous they’ll probably fall asleep from exhaustion once they arrive. After detaching the headrests, the motorized third row chairs tumble and stow in a sloth-like 35 seconds. If you’re still awake, you’ve got enough space for several large boxes of lifestyle brochures.

Our $38k SRX holstered Caddy’s 260hp 3.6-liter V6 with a five-speed autobox (the ‘07 V8 gets six cogs). The double overhead cammed, multi-valved powerplant is smooth and responsive in waft mode, and throaty and powerful when stomped upon. Although the SRX motors to 60 mph from rest in a respectable 7.2 seconds, highway passing occurs at roughly the same pace as the folding rear seats. Plan ahead, leave early.

On long sweepers, Caddy’s crossover is a confident companion, absorbing undulations and responding to minor steering inputs with grace and something not unlike élan. But as soon as you up the pace and/or tighten the bends, the SRX’ light steering, soft rear suspension, high center of gravity and long wheelbase exact a poise penalty. The modestly shod, grip challenged SRX takes to small mountain roads like a country music fan to Judas Priest’s Painkiller. Although, it's a serene cruiser, the Caddy's dynamics aren't a patch on Infiniti FX-series. 

Off road, c’mon, get real. The SRX is about as rugged as your average string quartet. Towing? You can schlep anything you like as long as it’s under 2000 pounds. The SRX six’ fuel economy clocks in at 15/22mpg. That may be about par for the course for its competitors, but it’s still a pretty frightening stat for a company desperately seeking sales in a world of escalating gas prices.

It’s hard to say why the SRX has failed to capture the imagination of American SUV refugees. Cabin quality (or lack thereof) was certainly a problem— which the automaker’s now rectified. The lack of a sustained and coherent marketing campaign also kept Caddy's CUV off the import buyer’s radar. And the vehicle’s bland looks did it no favors.

Ultimately, it’s the latter that torpedoed the SRX. Caddies need charisma. The SRX rides, handles and cossets beautifully; it walks the walk, but it doesn’t talk the talk. In fact, the SRX proves that automotive beauty must be skin deep. 

Walking up to the XLR-V did nothing to dampen my anticipation, and much to increase it. The roadster is the only Caddy that doesn’t wear the brand’s “Art and Science” motif like an aging prostitute sporting a K-Mart pants suit. The XLR-V’s creased fiberglass strikes the perfect balance between edgy aggression and proportional elegance. The model-specific hood strakes and wire mesh grill add welcome wickedness to a minimalist masterpiece.

This is one of the few convertibles that sings the same siren song whether the lid’s fitted or flipped. With the hardtop deployed, the XLR-V offers more chop top chic than Chrysler’s gangsta 300C. With the top down, it’s sexy enough to run with ze Germans and Jags of the world. Either way, the XLR-V is confidently Cadillac, without resorting to Elvis-era clichés (although the taillight design pokes fun at the whole fin thing). If only the other Caddies had such great bones.

I’d like to say I walked up to the XLR-V and discovered one of the smoothest paint jobs you’ll find outside of Pebble Beach Concours D’Elegance. I’d like to say that the XLR-V’s trunk hinges were free from duct taped wiring and an exposed fuse, and that the teeny tiny little trunk (sausage shaped and smaller than ONE of the Boxster’s boots) wasn’t covered in the same rat fur blighting last week’s DTS. Unfortunately, the XLR-V put OCD boy right back in bean counted Hell.

Damn my eyes! Niggling little faults I wouldn’t even think to check in a Mercedes SL clamored for my attention. The driver’s portal slammed shut with a resounding thunk– and the panel housing the window switches vibrated independently of the door. The disappearing tin top performed an artful ballet– with all the jerkiness of an arthritis sufferer tying his shoes. The Zingana (son of Zebrano?) wood surrounding the shifter was silken to the touch– and looked like a faded panel from my parent’s old rec room.

Although iPoditude and Bluetoothedness are MIA, there are toys aplenty, including a way cool head-up display. Still, there’s no getting around it: the XLR-V’s interior is a little, um, cheap. The plastic speedo bezel emblazoned Bulgari is more airport duty free than Fifth Avenue swank. The material surrounding the vents is ew-inducing. How much would it have cost to upgrade the convertible’s cabin materials, or provide some chairs with a bit more lateral bolstering than a La-Z-Boy recliner?

Cadillac apologists are free to deploy the old Ferrari defense: Caddy sells you an engine and throws in the car for free. Even before the supercharger kicks in, it’s clear the XLR-V’s 443-horse 4.4-liter Northstar V8 is a serous torquemeister. Tickle the go-pedal and the big Caddy gently kneels on your lower back. Floor it and mayhem is your co-pilot. The XLR-V accelerates from zero to sixty in 4.6 seconds and hits the quarter in 13. Do you believe in muscle cars Miss Turner? WELL YOU’RE IN ONE.

This much is clear the moment you throw the 4000lbs. drop top into some curves. With 19” rubber and Magnetic Ride Control at all four corners, the XLR-V stays flat, level and griptastic deep into lateral G-land. But unless the pavement is glassine, confidence is low. Over broken pavement, the XLR-V has no natural handling fluency whatsoever. You could just wrestle the beast around the bends (in the great muscle car tradition)– if those support challenged seats didn’t make it such a supremely uncomfortable exercise.

Better then, to just stunt and floss and drag race from time to time. And believe me, I’m down with that. The XLR-V is a bit rough around the edges and it ain’t no sports car, but the hardtop drop top looks like a genuine Cadillac and goes like Hell. What's more, the XLR-V has an X-factor, an appeal that can't be measured or rationalized. If only it cost $25k less.

Yes, there is that. At $100k all-in, the most expensive Cadillac ever is a joke. The similarly-priced Mercedes SL550 is better-looking, better-built, better-handling, far more practical (its trunk is cavernous in comparison), offers less at-speed top down turbulence, doesn’t depreciate like a stone thrown into a deep dark well and isn’t that much slower.

Cadillac should have priced the XLR-V lower or pulled-out all the stops and built a world beater. They did neither and paid the price. (Which is more than you can say for their potential consumers.) That said, I can understand those few hundred people who bought an XLR-V. It's another GM "almost car," but it IS a Cadillac. 

Let me be clear: Cadillac isn’t Audi, BMW, Lexus or Mercedes. Before I illustrate this point in depressing detail, here’s what I want out of a Caddy: Texaguido style, a magic carpet ride, enough room to schlep the wife and three full-grown kids, and a trunk that’ll fit two dead Mafiosi. That’s it. That’s all a Cadillac has to do to earn my respect. Anything else is nice, but surplus to requirements. The DTS fails at the first hurdle.

What IS this thing? While the brand’s nose is distinctive enough, the protruding five-mile-per-hour bumper (remember them?) indicates some kind of badly synthesized graftwerk. The four door's rear has all the sinister charm of Joseph Stalin's limo. The sedan’s profile offers the only side-on sheetmetal I’ve ever seen that’s more generic than a Toyota Cressida. The Performance Pack’s 18’s are lost in the wheel wells and the shiny alloys are hideous.

The DTS is based on GM’s vintage front-wheel-drive G-platform, also underpinning the phenomenally unsuccessful Buick Lucerne. Enter the cabin and the downside is immediately obvious. Although the front chairs are large enough for inveterate pasta-addicts, the limited back row width restricts capacity to two well fed paesans. On the positive side, the aniline Tehama leather is wonderfully soft and supportive– but not as fragrant as the standard cow hide. In fact, it’s odorless.

This same anodyne character and lack of attention to detail applies to the rest of the DTS’ interior. Buttons snick with all the precision of a Botswana Army drill team. The beige hard touch plastics, pedestrian-looking gauges and cheap ass door ajar bong all speak the language of rental car Hell. There are plenty of fat rich guy toys on offer: remote start, Intellibeam headlamp system (auto high beam / low beam switching), rain sensing wipers, etc. But the seat massager that gently annoys your lower spine embodies the DTS’ underlying cut rate ethos.

Fortunately, the beast drives well. Even/especially after 15 years, Caddy’s Northstar V8 is a jewel. The 4.6-liter engine’s pitted against 4000lbs. (plus Florida retirees, goombas, gang bangers, golf clubs, AK47’s, etc.). Even so, the Performance Pack’s 292hp is enough juice for mindlessly swift progress. (Though the DTS is slower than the lighter Lucerne.) Throttle response is exemplary, the brakes work and the Northstar emits a lovely little growl when provoked.

Despite its nose heavy front wheel-drive chassis, the DTS corners quickly– without 70’s cop show tire squeal or scenic understeer excursions. All praise to GM’s Magnetic Ride Control, which virtually eliminates body lean. Unfortunately, the DTS’ numb (but accurate) steering is a killjoy, and the flat, puffy seats ensure that rapid left hand corners leave cheek marks against the laminated glass.

In a straight line, bump suppression is brand compliant– though not without a slight jarring effect over bad surfaces (and noticeably less Novocained in the lower spec models). At 80mph, the DTS cruises serenely– except for some wind noise around the front window and a strange pulsing feeling through the tiller. With only a four-speed Hydramatic gearbox swapping cogs, highway overtaking means lots of noise and little alacrity.

And so to the trunk, whose lid swings as freely as members of The Black Key Club. Yes, it’s big (the trunk). But it’s ugly. Perhaps the only thing nastier than the DTS’ mouse pelt headliner is the rancid rabbit fur covering the rear cavern. And then there’s the trunk mat. Good idea: rancid rabbit fur on one side, rubber on the other (for “wet work”). But the colors don’t match. 

And therein lies the tale. Never mind the DTS’ po-faced design. Never mind the lack of interior refinement. It’s obvious Cadillac can’t be bothered to sweat the small stuff. If you clock the DTS’ price against a same sized, similarly equipped German or Japanese rival, the $41k and up Caddy will be the lowest-priced alternative, by a large margin, without incentives. So what? The DTS is not as good a car. Even within its own remit, it falls short. 

Unless GM stops stiffing Cadillac’s designers and engineers, unless they start with a clean sheet of paper, once again, the brand has peaked. 

So there I was, attending a ride ’n drive event for the Hummer H3. Instead of putting us behind the wheel of GM’s gangsta’ Chevy Colorado, the company’s PR flacks pulled the sheets off a brand new car and announced it was right here, right now: Cadillac! The erstwhile luxury brand’s brand latest and greatest model was now available in RSA, and we’d get to drive this Saab-based mid-size sedan. Here are the keys. Off you go.

Now cast your minds back to great Cadillacs of our collective imagination. Skip tracer Tommy Nowak’s 1959 convertible. The pearlized pink Caddies proudly gracing the driveways of Mary Kay’s super sales force. Hunter S. Thompson’s 1971 Eldorado fearing and loathing the Nevada desert. Elvis’ 1955 Fleetwood 60 Special, or the pink Cadillac in his rockabilly classic “Baby Let’s Play House.” The Caddy ambulance in Ghostbusters. Now, behold: the BLS!

Actually, you can’t behold a car as pleb as the BLS. You can hardly look at it without turning away in schadenfreude-inspired shame. This “B-grade Luxury Sedan” (Cadillac’s designation, not mine) looks like nothing but a bunch of creased cardboard from a package designer seeking maximum rigidity. The BLS sports the high beltline that’s quickly becoming synonymous with the modern American cars. From the rear three quarter, the derivative design apes the Chrysler 300’s urban flava. ‘Art & Science’? More like ‘Compromise & Cowardice’. 

Yes, modern BMW and Mercedes designers have overdone it on the concaves and convexes and swoops and fussiness. But Cadillac practically invented concaves, convexes, swoops and fussiness. The BLS has been sterilised of anything you could dislike– or like. It’s the gauda, the unwooded chardonnay, the Castle Lite, the Phil Collins of cars.

The BLS’ interior is equally anodyne. It’s better than a Ford or Chrysler’s cabin, but invites Audi and Volvo to an ergonomic pity party. The classy retro-feel dash-mounted clock’s attempt to jazz up a dour, drab space is about as convincing as double dubs on a Vee Dub. And then there’s the build quality by which a luxury marque lives, or in this case, dies. I sussed three different test cars with three different sets of dashboard rattles. One car’s wipers whistled at a workaday Karoo-eating 150kph. Another boasted a broken rear seat latch. Never mind. Only a masochistic full-sized adult would dare darken the BLS’ cramped rear compartment.

The Trollhatten-built BLS comes in four engine flavours: a 1.9-liter four-cylinder common-rail diesel, the same engine with a turbo, a 2.0-liter turbo Ecotec four and a 2.8-liter turbo V6. If you’ve driven Saabs, then you know the score. The diesel is the strong, silent type; the two-litre the sensible, boring sort; and the V6 has a bit of much needed swagger (0 – 60mph in 7.1 seconds).

The BLS sits on the same Epsilon platform underpinning the Saab 9-3 (Saabilac?), Opel Vectra (Opelac?) and Chevy Malibu (Malibac?). Saab, Opel, GM, Cadillac – someone tuned the BLS’ suspension to Euro-driver firmness. While the BLS’ initial turn-in is eager and its body control exemplary, the brakes and steering provide less feedback than the Home Affairs department to a telephone query. If you push the front wheel-drive Caddy (how great does THAT sound), you can get some dramatic tire-squealing understeer, but little in the way of agility or fun. It’s best to drive as if you’re not insured.

Compared to the comfort, ride, handling, performance and cachet of Europe’s midrange luxury offerings, the BLS is a joke. It isn’t on the same planet as a rear wheel-drive BMW, Mercedes or the well-poised (if somewhat crashy) Audi. No wonder the BLS hasn’t lived up to GM’s initial [and modest] sales expectations.

In fact, the BLS is another in a long line of badly judged badge-engineering bodge jobs that’ve been ruining The General's brands for decades. GM’s decision to export the BLS to South Africa and, gulp, Mexico, is a cynical attempt to see if car buyers in smaller markets are more amendable to mediocrity than the Euro Zone. If I can speak for the Mexicans, we aren’t. In fact, GM should kill this model before it pisses away any remaining respect for the once great Cadillac name, or teaches new drivers that Cadillac is the sub-standard of the world.

Clock those side vents. At the precise moment when Caddy's luxury SUV should swagger into town with unabashed American style, the 'Slade arrives with its main design cue "borrowed" from Land Rover's Range Rover Sport. While the cynical amongst you might assert that the Escalade's target market is no more likely to connect the two vehicles than smoke crack and drive (as if), the fact remains: the porthole plagiarism betrays a staggering lack of confidence and originality. Of course, badge engineering a Chevrolet Tahoe betrays a staggering lack of confidence and originality, but, um… where was I? Something about the enormous gap in the SUV's wheel arches making the 'Slade look like a punk ass bitch? No… that wasn't it. Or was it?

Meanwhile, in the rush to market, someone at GM forgot to give their "new" SUV an independent rear suspension. (Doh!) So here we have, once again, a nearasdammit seventeen foot truck that can only accommodate four passengers in anything like comfort. Not to put too fine a point on it, asking three pro-football players to find a place in the second row would be an invitation to a brawl, and even the most heinous Charles Dickens' villain would think twice about strapping a small child into the Escalade's claustrophobic, flat-floored third row. And if a 'Slade driver dared carry a full manifest of miserable human cargo, there's be no room left for anything other than a small assembly of pocket-sized torture devices.

At least the build quality sucks. No really. The Escalade seems specifically constructed to give ammunition to those carless, dealerphobic, stock-shorting curmudgeons who dare call GM's best efforts "90%" vehicles. The ashtray unfolds gracefully, triggered by the world's flimsiest metal catch. The pedals move, but not the steering wheel. The plastics look soft, but feel like fossilized elephant dung. The chairs squish reassuringly, but offer as much lateral support as a Ziploc bag. Everywhere you look there are examples of NQE (Not Quite Engineering), constantly reminding you that there's $10k profit in this machine that could have been spent on, well, you. Or, if you prefer, telling you to go and buy a virtually identical high-spec Tahoe.

Of course, then you'd miss out on the bigger engine. And? Despite cranking-out 403hp and 417 ft.-lbs. of twist, despite an endlessly raucous engine note, the Escalade's 6.2-liter pushrod powerplant is no match for mega-mass and a mileage-seeking six-speed gearbox. Floor it and… wait. Yes, it'll kick down and go properly when prodded, but there's no excuse for a cramped vehicle that gets single digit mileage feeling slow, as well. And even with computer-controlled real-time damping, the 'Slade never lets you forget its ladder-frame underpinnings. Not that it doesn't try: the astoundingly over-assisted steering requires sufficient concentration to distract you from any other dynamic concerns.

On the positive side, the 'Slade's 13" ventilated disc brakes are superb, offering plenty of feel, lots of power and only the slightest whiff of burned rubber. And the Stabilitrak system keeps the beast flat and level through the twisties– even if understeer arrives unfashionably early and the seats do nothing to keep you from hip-checking the door or any beverages unfortunate enough to sit in the cupholder. And hey! It's better than the last model.

But not nearly good enough to restore GM's lost luster. In fact, the Cadillac Escalade pisses me off. This was the perfect opportunity for GM to give the middle finger to critics like me who constantly slag GM's products for being perennial also-rans: vehicles that are a full model cycle behind the class-leaders. If this $60k-and-up SUV had crushed the competition, if the Cadillac Escalade had set a new standard for luxury SUV's that even Audi's new Q7 couldn't top, it wouldn't even matter if the Escalade sold well. That SUV would have been an automotive line in the sand for GM's current stewards. As it stands, the Escalade is nothing but a feeble attempt to tread water, even as the sharks start to get chummy with The General.

For some reason, they based the STS' design on the arrow-sharp CTS– minus the sharp. While the STS' front and back ends retain a welcome measure of the CTS' aggression, the overall result looks like a fat mobster in a Brioni suit. The STS' sloping swage lines and ever-so-slightly bulging wheel arches can't disguise the fact that it's a slab-sided luxobarge from the old school, with all the blingosity of a Lincoln Town Car. Granted, that may have been the point: to build a luxury car conservative enough for Cadillac's traditional clientele, yet– no wait, that's it; that's the whole story.

The STS' interior also reflects the company's sudden risk aversion. Props to Caddy for ditching the Deville's interior excess: velour couches, nasty switches, excessive wood. But the attempt to crib Audi/Mercedes/BMW's sumptuous minimalism has left the STS with a soul-ectomy. (It even smells like a doctor's waiting room.) You would have thought the brand's success amongst the spinners and dubs set would've inspired them to try something wild: two-tone leather, Playstation display, built-in lead crystal decanter, signature scent, something wikkid. But no, the STS' cabin feels like a pricey Pontiac.

Once underway, the STS offers the usual Detroit big car dynamics: float, bang, lean and scoot. Crest a large undulation and the STS' pillow talk DNA asserts itself. Drive over a poorly surfaced road and the suspension tells you someone decided to sacrifice ride for handling. Throw yourself into a corner and the chassis tells you someone decided to sacrifice handling for ride. If you've never driven a foreign luxury sedan, or any Honda, the STS' ride and handling is close enough for rock and roll. If you have, it ain't.

On the positive side, the STS sits on a rear or [optional] all-wheel-drive platform. Caddy's twenty year-plus digression into front drivers left the brand without a shred of credibility in an increasingly performance-oriented segment. While an STS helmsman would be ill-advised to attempt any tail-out action (think cabin cruiser in a big beam sea), the car is commendably responsive to driver input and command. By the same token, the steering and brakes are predictably numb, but perfectly effective for the job at hand (and foot).

The STS is also great on the open road, where the car's ride gains enough composure to allow the digital audio system and Bidness Class leg room to lull passengers into a suitable stupor. Anti-enthusiasts may wish to note that Caddy has finally pulled level with Lexus in the battle to eliminate any sonic indication of forward progress. Both brands now offer products with interiors that are as quiet as a tomb. Which reminds me: the STS' trunk continues the great Cadillac tradition of offering enough room for a couple of dead bodies (or several large suitcases).

The V8 version provides plenty of silky smooth shove. The STS' 4.6-liter 320hp Northstar powerplant can propel Detroit's latest luxury leviathan from zero to sixty miles-per-hour in a staggering six seconds. The V8 STS is also a determined passer, able to leap long trucks in a single bound. Unfortunately, the car's drive-by-wire throttle was programmed by a non-coffee drinker; the moment you even breathe on the gas pedal, the STS takes off like a scalded cat (threatening many a scalded lap). And the autobox shows a disturbing reluctance to kick down at cruising speed.

Ironically, the bangin' V8 actually makes the STS experience slightly worse. By eliminating the constant sense of wonder at the V6 engine's lack of grunt, you're free to contemplate the STS' full monotony. It's like taking a stone out of your shoe and finding yourself in a paper clip museum. Or, even worse, a very expensive rental car.

Cadillac considers the STS the best luxury sedan they've ever made– and they're not wrong. Traditional Caddy buyers will be pleased with their new whip. But any Cadillac exec that thinks the STS' has enough ride, handling or comfort to lure buyers out of their bombing Bimmers, massive Mercs and liquid Lexi did too many mind-altering substances in the 70's. More worryingly, the STS lacks sufficient sizzle to delight the Brothers. If Caddy wants to maintain its current momentum, they need to stop chasing Eurostyle and, like Chrysler did with their gangsta-rrific 300C, get down with their bad selves.