Let me be frank: I’m not a very good driver. Now, I don’t mean that I careen from lamppost to lamppost like a drunken pinball, nor that I have to spend my afternoons picking teeth out of the bumper and pressure-washing old-ladies and kittens out of the undercarriage; no, I’m merely pointing out that I’m not a racecar driver in real life, only on the podium of my own imagination.

I’ve had some professional driver training, so I know how to position a seat, how to set my mirrors, how to use peripheral vision, how to look through the corners and so on, but the fact remains that my driving skills are fairly average. At best.

My fingers are of purest butter. When clenched, they form fists of finest Virginia ham. My right foot is composed of an amalgam of the entire bottom row of the periodic table of the elements, alloyed with lead for extra heft. All these appendages are fastened by spindly arms and legs to a buffoon with a block of wood for a head and a pea-sized amount of cotton wool for a brain.

Luckily, none of these considerable drawbacks matter, because I am currently the greatest driver in the history of the universe, better than Senna, better than Vittel, better than Zaphod Beeblebrox. Ladies and gentleman, the Mitsubishi EVO.

…and in the next breath, the Subaru STi. One cannot be mentioned without the other: they are as Yin-and-Yang intertwined in the pantheon of petrosexuality as Nissan would love you to think that the GTR and the Porsche 911 are. While both are all-wheel-drive, turbo-nutter rally cars that probably won’t see gravel until their second round of ownership, the similarity pretty much ends right there.

EVOs and STis are like cats and dogs. The Subaru has the feel of a big friendly golden retriever, always happy to see you and go out for a nice long muddy run, preferentially mostly sideways. The EVO, on the other hand, grips with catlike precision as though equipped with retractable claws, and has a not-quite-bred-out killer-instinct on the track. The metaphor extends to their owners as well: Subaru fans are always waving to each other and hanging around together in car parks, and Mitsubishi enthusiasts live by themselves and have no friends. Only joking.

Sort of. Forgetting which car I was in, I saluted a fellow Subaru owner (yes, I’ve got one myself), and received an icy staredown as though I’d flashed a rival gang sign, or perhaps the sign-language for, “I cordially invite you to have intimate relations with your maternal ancestors.” Oops.

Which is best? Don’t be ridiculous. One might as well ask which is better: the colour blue, or potato chips? Potato chips, obviously, but when we start discussing cars this capable, it’s all going to boil down to taste; which brings us, rather long-windedly, to the styling…
Vader drives a GNX, right? Well, if a Grand National shows up with a bunch of white EVOs in tow, better get ready to clutch your wrist-stump and leap down an airshaft: this thing’s pure stormtrooper helmet. Or actually, the grille looks like the facemask of one of those ornery sandpeople.

Either way, it’s a great-looking rig. I took it over to the in-laws to ensure that they disapproved (mission accomplished) and my mother-in-law remarked that it looked unfinished. I think it’s the best-looking thing Mitsubishi’s ever built. You wanna talk unfinished? Check out the interior.

I had a chance to drive a base Lancer immediately prior to snagging the keys to the EVO, and found it to be the biggest heap of crap since Hercules bunged out the Aegean stables. No small part of the excrescence was down to the feeble interior design and this thing’s the same plastic-fantastic wonderland of dodgy build quality. Mitsubishi might as well have left a post-it note on the dash that says, “We saved money here.”

Exception: the seats. Gott in Himmel, the seats! I haven’t been ensconced so comfortably and comprehensively since I was in utero. There’s no height adjustment, and certainly no power functions, but they are possibly the best thrones ever. Why? Because race car.

Oh yes, now it’s on to the good stuff. “Horse and rider as one,” that’s the Mazda credo, yes? Well, imagine if you somehow managed to get a saddle strapped on to a panther without having your head bitten off. A telepathic panther.

To an amateurish driver, the EVO is a revelation, and that’s compared to my own fully-fettled 330hp WRX (uh, long-term-tester) in the driveway. You don’t steer the EVO, you think it.

How the Hell they managed to build Rikki-Tikki-Tavi out of the wallowing dugong that is the base Lancer, I’ll never know. You can’t sow a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, but apparently you can make a running shoe out of pigskin.

It’s not just mongoose reflexes either. The EVO pivots and shifts and rotates and generally flatters you into thinking you’re Stig Blomqvist. Or maybe even The Stig. Some say, it’s all electronic trickery, and that the chances of anyone actually needing to engage the “gravel” function on the Super-All Wheel Control are as slim as that of being able to talk your way out of a speeding ticket in a car with fender gills, three holes in the hood and a whacking great wing. All we know is: it’s a bloody good time.

Admittedly, the 2.5L flat-four in the STi has a bit more grunt down low, but the Mitsu has no problem spooling its big turbine. What’s more, the EVO’s big front-mount intercooler doesn’t get heat-soaked, meaning that playing in traffic is just as much fun as Mom told you it wouldn’t be.

There’s a certain amount of roughness to the surge of power and, apocryphally, I’ve heard that the factory tune on the car is pretty wonky on the air-fuel ratios. Still, it’s a fast, fast car, and like the Nissan GT-R, is even faster if you’re a bit of a Fisty Rocks.

Try haring around the Nürburgring in a Viper ACR and my lap time would be DNF: DOA. Inevitably, I’d become a four micron thick and forty meter long streak of reddish brown drying on the Armco. In an EVO, I’d be lapping some silly upper-class twit in a M3.

And here we come at last to our hero’s Achilles’ heel: cost. For the price of this entry-model GSR ($46,348CDN – that’s a lotta seal-pelts), I could be driving a a very nicely-equipped 3-series sedan. Upgrade to the MR and suddenly you’re talking 335i Coupe territory, even more so as the Bimmer’s bound to have cheap leasing options.

Show up for a date with a roundel on your bonnet, and you’re going to win points. Screech to a halt in a pearl-white EVO and she’s unlikely to be impressed, unless she has a complete collection of illegally dubbed Initial-D and plays a lot of Forza. In which case: MARRY THAT WOMAN.

More housekeeping items: the fuel economy is appallingly dismal; bad enough that you half-expect to receive a handwritten thank-you note from the leaders of OPEC. I also found it tricky to heel-and-toe downshift as the accelerator pedal is somewhat recessed. And when you turn down the (inevitably) thumping hippity-hop on the stereo, the tinny cabin of the EVO fills with the toneless, thrumming base of an full-volume amp with an unplugged patchcord.

Let me make this perfectly clear: I. Don’t. Care.

As for me, well, I’m as pale as the driven soap flakes and have a shock of ginger hair, so piloting a white EVO ’round China-town while blasting Canto-pop and sipping bubble tea was as immersive as backpacking through Tibet or whatever else we white people are supposed to like. I even gave my best Russell Peters to a guy who cut me off: “Go to jail badboy!”

This is the EVO’s best trick yet. Whenever I slid over the bolsters, settled myself in driving position and cranked the starter, a little frisson of excitement shivered up the driving column and out through the steering wheel into my fingertips. The most mundane and humdrum of driving errands are made interesting. It may be chock-full of driving aids, but you are never less than fully-engaged.

The EVO’s full-moon lunacy is on the wane: Mitsubishi turns towards the all-electric i-MiEV as a halo car, and away from inefficient speed machines. It’s a great car. Drive it while you can.

Mitsubishi provided the car and insurance for this review.

Platform shared with the Evo + three rows of seating = the ideal vehicle for an enthusiast with kids? This formula encapsulates the promise of the second-generation Mitsubishi Outlander. But back when it was introduced, for the 2007 model year, the reality fell short, with too many rough edges in both the chassis and the interior. Last year the Outlander was freshened with a more Evo-like nose, an upgraded interior, and a new GT trim that added an active front differential. More than ever Mitsubishi was pitching the Outlander as the family hauler for enthusiasts. But do the tweaks go deep enough?

The Outlander was already a handsome crossover when fitted with the 18-inch wheels standard on all but the base model (which gets 16s). Though the crisp sheetmetal dates back to 2007, it’s doesn’t appear dated. Flared wheel openings and a kinked beltline keep the exterior from appearing generic without taking it over the top or appearing tacked on. The new, more distinctive nose adds some aggressiveness and more clearly marks the vehicle as a Mitsubishi.

Inside, Mitsubishi has done an admirable job of upgrading the interior for pocket change. Most of the plastic castings remain the same, but padded vinyl surfaces have been added to the instrument binnacle, instrument panel fascia, and upper doors. Though the vinyl has a budget look and feel to it—no one will mistake it for leather—it’s a big step up from hard plastic. That said, plenty of cheap bits remain, and door handles evince a tinny clang when the portals are opened, so the overall effect isn’t convincing. The Outlander was short on refinement even by 2007 standards, and the revisions aren’t thorough enough to keep up with competition that has lept forward.

The view forward from the driver’s seat is about ideal for a crossover: not too far from the windshield, and also not too upright. Simply a good car raised a few inches. The view rearward is good, and enhanced by large mirrors and (with the optional nav) a rearview camera. The front seats will work better for some people than others, as the non-adjustable lumbar bulge is prominent. Thankfully the active headrests don’t jut uncomfortably far forward. More of a problem: the steering wheel does not telescope and is positioned a little too far away for those of us without long arms.

Though Mitusbishi has stuffed three rows into the body of a compact crossover (183 x 71 x 66 inches), the second row is roomy enough for adults even when slid all the way forward. Slide it back, and there’s large car legroom. The second row is also high enough off the floor to provide decent thigh support and an open sitelines. The third row, which is more difficult than most to set up and stow, could not be more rudimentary. The bottom isn’t even a cushion. Instead, cloth that doesn’t attempt to match the other seats is stretched over a perimeter frame, hammock-style. Okay for kids, less okay for larger, heavier people. Even with kids back there the second row must be slid forward to make room for legs. Bottom line: if you’re just looking for occasional space for two kids, it’ll do. For full-time or adult use, perhaps not.

Even with the third row up there’s enough space behind it for a few large duffels or a major grocery run. There’s almost as much room behind the third row as in a Honda Pilot, a much larger vehicle, and far more than you’ll find behind the third row in a Kia Sorento or Toyota Highlander (much less the RAV4, which dealers rarely stock with the third row). It helps that the well behind the seat is very deep. And, to access this deep well, the bumper folds own tailgate style. You won’t find a lower liftover. The third row collapses flat into the floor—with little in the way of padding, it takes up very little space when stowed. The second row doesn’t fold to form a flat floor, but this is to be expected given how extremely low the rear floor is. The front passenger seat does not fold, a shame as this would take a highly versatile interior to the next level. A rigid cargo shelf as see in the PT Cruiser to form a flat floor with the second row would also be a nice touch, but the optional cargo cover is the window shade type.

While Mitsubishi’s 230-horsepower 3.0-liter DOHC V6 can’t deal out thrust the way Toyota’s or Kia’s stronger, smoother 3.5s can, with the throttle open wide it’s certainly more energetic than the fours Honda and Nissan rely on in their compact SUVs. Even with all-wheel-drive, torque steer is occasionally in evidence. At part throttle the six leaves more to be desired, with both the throttle mapping and the six-speed automatic transmission’s programming oriented towards economy rather than behavior worthy of the GT label. So in casual driving the 3,780-pound Outlander GT feels weaker than its specs suggest. The GT model includes some outstanding fixed position magnesium paddles alongside the steering wheel, but this powertrain is not worthy of them.

And the economy? The EPA numbers of 19/25 miles per gallon (city/highway) and the numbers I observed about the burbs (18 to 20) are little better than those of larger crossovers. Then again, the Kia Sorento does even worse (18/24) while the Toyota RAV4 does just a touch better (19/26). In this segment, if you want excellent fuel economy you want a four-cylinder engine.

My hopes were highest for the Outlander GT’s chassis. With the GT label and the active front differential, I figured this could be the three-row vehicle enthusiasts who’d been overly lax with birth control have been looking for. But it’s not. While the Outlander GT steers and handles better than the related base Outlander Sport I also reviewed recently, and about as well as other compact crossovers, it’s still not good enough. Even with the fancy differential, the effect of which was never evident, there’s too much understeer even in moderately aggressive turns. Also too much roll and not quite enough body control. Not a bad chassis for casual drivers, but not a willing, competent, confidence-inspiring partner for those of us looking to do more than get from one point to another. The Goodyear Eagle LS tires, an oddly casual specification for a “GT,” give up the fight early, and the nose then plows for the outside curb.The moderately heavy steering feels like it would communicate well if only the rest of the chassis and the tires would do their parts, but it cannot carry the entire team.

Ride quality is similarly passable, but lacking in polish. Bumps are absorbed well, but the engine noise, road noise, and sensations through the seat of one’s pants are those of an inexpensive, somewhat dated vehicle. Ford dropped off a new Focus the last day I had the Outlander GT, and the difference in refinement was night and day. Ford’s latest feels like it should cost twice as much as the Mitsubishi, boding well for the upcoming Escape replacement and not reflecting well on the Outlander. A decade ago the Outlander’s materials and refinement would have been competitive, but in recent years industry norms have been advancing rapidly. The tight, slick, smooth, and hushed sound and feel that used to only be obtainable in expensive European machinery is now available in a $20,000 Ford. Mitsubishi has a lot of catching up to do if it hopes to survive.

Is the Mitsubishi as inexpensive as it feels? While the tested vehicle’s $33,290 sticker might not seem low, a Kia Sorento SX runs nearly $3,000 higher when similarly outfitted with leather, sunroof, and nav. TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool suggests that about $1,150 of the gap is due to the Kia’s additional features, leaving an adjusted price difference of about $1,800. Don’t need these three big ticket features? Then the Outlander GT’s list price falls to $28,590. A similarly-equipped base trim Toyota RAV4 is priced only a few hundred dollars higher, but adjusting for remain feature differences opens up a nearly $3,000 advantage for the Mitsibishi. Bottom line: once you consider the Outlander’s features, every other three-row crossover costs considerably more. A Hyundai-like 5/60 bumper-to-bumper warranty, plus 10/100 powertrain warranty for the first owner, further sweetens the deal.

So the Outlander GT isn’t a driver’s crossover. Marketing rather than engineering appears to have pushed the GT label. For now, you must spend real money to obtain such a beast. And, even with the very welcome interior upgrades, the Mitsubishi’s materials and refinement remain at least five years behind the industry norm. But the Outlander’s exterior remains attractive and its interior is a triumph of packaging, with an excellent driving position, three rows of seating, and good cargo space inside a compact body. Add in a relatively low sticker price and long warranty, the Outlander likely deserves more attention than it has been receiving. Just not from enthusiasts.

Mitsubishi 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.

By all accounts, the original Mitsubishi A6M Reisen, also known as “Zeke” or “Zero”, was a pretty decent little warplane. For a year or so, it had the edge on the porky old Brewster Buffalos and Grumman Wildcats operating, which is to say retreating, in the Pacific Theatre of World War II. The Wildcat was replaced by the Hellcat, and by the time the fabulous P-47 Thunderbolt arrived it was game over for the Zero. The “Jug” was virtually indestructible, while the Zero offered virtually no protection to either its pilot or its fuel tanks. It was apparently quite profitable for Thunderbolt pilots to fly head-on at the Zeros and just shoot at them until the Mitsubishi fell out of the sky, its return fire completely ineffective. (P-47 info edited — JB)

Still, the Zero was a decent little plane.

Every Mitsubishi built since then, of every type, shape, variety, and description, has been a complete piece of crap.

Whew! Sorry about that! I was channeling our dear departed founder for a moment. I mean, not every Mitusbishi ever built has been junk. There was the Sapporo, which was, um, junk. And the Starion, but that was junk, too. The 3000GT? Impossible to fix and heavier empty than the aforementioned Mitsubishi Zero or a Corvette carrying the two fattest people from your local Wal-Mart. The DiamondStar cars? My friend Mark Mitias famously christened them “DSM-Disposable Speed Machines”. The Lancer Evolution? Nice to drive, satisfying to use on a racetrack, but made from tin and cardboard.

Maybe every Mitsubishi ever built has been junk. Still, I’m sympathetic towards them, and it makes me sad to see that the webpage for the Eclipse Spyder looks like this:

Look at the people-and-mileage infographic in the upper right-hand corner. You know where you see infographics like that? Right. At the rental-car counter. Where Mitusbishis go, not to die, but to live their lives. That’s where I found my test Eclipse, fetchingly dressed in “Carbon” paint and carrying a sticker price of $26,495 post rebates. Hertz Los Angeles charged me almost $200 to rent it for a day and a half; although I was on a press trip, I had some personal business which required that I slip the PR leash and travel without restriction or oversight. Thus the Eclipse.

First impressions: it isn’t bad-looking in its own way. The chrome spoiler isn’t as offensive as it is on the Infiniti G-Spots and the swell of the hindquarters has a somewhat mesmerizing effect for me. Let’s check it out, top-down in Beverly Hills:

There’s one unintended consequence of the styling and the big cloth top: backing out becomes an exercise in sheer bloody courage. Fruitlessly attempting to manipulate the car around the parking lot next to Kat von D’s “High Voltage Tattoo” studio, I ended up just closing my eyes and doing a full-throttle reverse into the unknown. I had not previously informed my passenger that such a maneuver was forthcoming. They say you never hear the bullet that kills you. After that, I kept the complicated top down at all times for visibility and safety, even in light rain.

In many ways, the Eclipse Spyder is a little time capsule, a look back into What Them Japanese Cars Used To Be Like. Let’s see. Charmless four-cylinder, rough but short on power? Check. Four-speed automatic with somewhat leisurely shift times? Yup. Lowest-bidder plastic interior? Uh-huh.

The sound system, branded “Rockford Fosgate” to reach that critical retired-minitruckers-who-remember-the-Punch-45-amplifier demographic, wasn’t bad, although the subwoofer mounted between the negligible rear seats seemed inadequately protected and quite prone to being poked with pencils, pens, broken bongs, shivs, and the other accoutrements of the modern Mitsubishi buyer, who is primarily identifiable by his sub-600 credit rating and fondness for the music of “Sublime”.

Speaking of, let me tell you what else is a bad idea: driving a convertible top-down through LA with a passenger who is both drunk and fluent in Spanish. I know the language in print but couldn’t keep up with her enough to know what kind of trouble we were getting into. “Hey, (plural form of Spanish word for person who is unnaturally intimate with his mother)!” she yelled at four vatos in a LeSabre. “(Fornicate) (your) (sister, or possibly taco dressing) (with) (a goat, or airplane propeller, or small dog native to certain regions of Mexico).” Time to floor the Eclipse’s too-loud-pedal and get the hell out of there, with a brief visit to the next lane courtesy of some vintage-style throttle-steer.

“I want to see the Hollywood sign!” she then said in perfectly clear English. Cue the terrifying midnight climb up roads no wider than a Mitsubishi Eclipse Spyder, complete with blind corners, huge potholes, and streets that turn out to be driveways or vice versa. At last, the sign appeared in the foggy sky, unaccountably ominous for its proximity and mute familiarity. We stopped at the widest available point in the road and stepped out to take a look.

“Hey, muchacho, you gonna leave the car running like that?” she inquired.

“Who’d steal it?” I replied.

We could close the review right there, really. Of all the cars for sale today, this is definitely one of them. That’s about it. I’m not going to pull a Scott Burgess here. By “pull a Scott Burgess,” I don’t mean “get lapped by Jack Baruth in a Grand Cherokee while I’m driving a Chally 392 on a racetrack,” although that may have happened recently. I mean, “get all weepy-eyed about a less-than-great car just because the top goes down.” If I want to write a nice article about a car that is fundamentally a piece of disposable junk with a very pleasant convertible option, I’ll take the Kaiser’s shilling and fluff the Boxster a little bit. I hear there are more trips to Germany available for those of us who are willing to get our e-knees dirty in that regard.

I cannot recommend the Eclipse Spyder to anyone. There are better choices available for the same money, including the distantly related Chrysler 200 convertible. For the same money, you get a six-speed automatic and a few more refinements. You lose the fabulous ass, but that can be sourced elsewhere. The Mustang convertible costs a bit more but has a far stronger engine and is likely to be worth real money in a few years compared to either the Eclipse or 200. A MINI Cooper convertible is slower but nicer inside and carries a lot more credibility with the fabulous-ass crowd themselves.

The Eclipse nameplate had its moments, back in the early days of the sport-compact battle, but those are long gone. Like its winged ancestor, this Mitsubishi falls short on refinement, power, protection, and capability. It’s not necessarily crap, but it’s very far from being good. I’m afraid that the Eclipse has lost the war.

No one out-zombies Mitsubishi. Quite a few manufacturers have had brushes with death, only to bounce back strongly with competitive new cars. For Mitsubishi there’s been no bounce. Yet they’re still alive. Assuming Mitsubishi’s people aren’t actually brain dead, they must be in crisis mode. And cash must be short. So if they employ their scant resources to add a new model, the Outlander Sport, there must be something terribly compelling about it, right? Well, Mitsubishi didn’t exactly swing for the fences. The basic concept behind the Outlander Sport: remove a foot from the rear overhang of the Outlander CUV, cut $3,500 from the base price ($1,000 of it by making a CVT optional), make Bluetooth and USB connectivity standard, and hope the kids bite.

The Outlander Sport’s exterior styling is…different. Severely truncating the tail yields a hatchback profile, but with the ride height and chunkiness of an SUV. (The spirit of AMC lives!) Up front, the Outlander Sport wears the most aggressive grille to ever front a 148-horsepower 2.0-liter four. Mitsubishi has teased about killing the Evo. Perhaps they want to milk any remaining equity before doing so?

Inside the Outlander Sport, Mitsubishi has made some effort to keep pace, with soft-touch surfaces sparingly deployed on the instrument panel and doors. A leather-wrapped steering wheel is standard. But too many parts of the unremittingly black interior seem sourced from the lowest bidder. Some can be excused as having an honest simplicity—they are what they are, with no pretense of being something else—but the large HVAC control knobs, while easy to use, look and feel dreadfully cheap.

Mitsubishis often have a frisky character, and Outlander Sport’s hatchback shape promises sportier driving dynamics than the typical CUV. Hop into the driver seat, and hope immediately starts to fade. The firm front seats are high, and the instrument panel is deep. Even at rest there’s a sense of bulk. The manual shift lever is very tall, effectively communicating that the Outlander Sport aspires to be a truck, not a sporty hatch. A dead pedal is positioned too close. The rear seat is very roomy and comfortably high off the floor, but roomy rear seats are the rule rather than the exception among compact crossovers, so no big win here. Despite the truncated tail there’s a little more cargo space than in the typical compact hatch.

With 148 horsepower motivating 3,000 pounds and the truck-style long throws of the manual shifter, the Outlander Sport isn’t designed for hustling. Around town it gets about plenty well enough, though, and never feels slow. A manual transmission can be worth 20-30 horsepower in perceived acceleration, and this is one such case. If the trip computer can be believed, fuel economy pushes and occasionally even tops 30 in suburban driving. The EPA, using different methodology, reports 24 city, 31 highway.

The major disappointment arrives upon turning the steering wheel. For a 3,000-pound, 169-inch-long vehicle, the Outlander Sport feels surprisingly large and heavy, even clumsy. The tires no doubt deserve a fair amount of the blame. The manual transmission is offered only in the base model, and this model is shod with 215/70HR16 Yokohama Geolander G033s. With a design that optimizes something other than handling (what I don’t know), these tires feel squishy and roll over onto their tall sidewalls with little provocation. The steering has a dead zone on-center, and feels slow and numb. Despite these handicaps, the handling retains a basic competence—there’s a good chassis somewhere in there. With credit due the tall sidewalls, the Outlander Sport usually rides smoothly and quietly, though the tires clomp a bit loudly and reactions to tar strips and expansion joints can be abrupt.

The base Outlander Sport ES lists for only $19,275, which is lower, even much lower, than any other Japanese CUV. Adjusting for standard features tends to widen the Mitsubishi’s advantage. The Outlander Sport’s Jeep cousin, the Compass, lists for $720 more and, according to TrueDelta’s car price comparison tool lacks about $900 in features, for a feature-adjusted difference of about $1,600. A base Sportage undercuts the Outlander Sport by a few hundred dollars, but adjust for features and the Mitsubishi emerges with a miniscule advantage at MSRP but a $450 advantage at invoice (the base Sportage has a very small dealer margin). Mitsubishi even matches the Koreans with its warranty, which is 5/60 bumper-to-bumper and 10/100 powertrain (for the original owner).

Unfortunately, there’s a good reason for the low price: the Outlander Sport does nothing particularly well, while falling far short in handling and interior materials. When developing this vehicle, Mitsubishi’s mind was clearly elsewhere—the MiEV perhaps? If you’re searching for a surprising amount of truck flavor in an inexpensive, compact, fairly economical package, the Outlander Sport might be worth a look. But there’s a reason competitors have become ever more car-like in both styling and handling: that’s what most buyers want.

Mitsubishi 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.

I say “Mitsubishi.” You think “Evo.” And not much else, except perhaps, “Are they still around?” The problem: not many people are willing and able to spend BMW money for a Mitsubishi, even if it does offer stellar performance. So Mitsubishi developed the Lancer Ralliart, with a detuned Evo engine, less sophisticated AWD system, and softer suspension. The TTAC conclusion: “save up for the Evo.” Want a manual transmission? Then the Ralliart isn’t an option anyway. And, with a starting price over $28,000, it’s still pricey. So, how about the Lancer GTS, with a standard manual transmission and a starting price just over $20,000?

The Lancer GTS shares the Ralliart’s and Evo’s convervative, mildly upscale styling, sans Audified grille but mit ricerific wing spoiler and 18-inch multi-spoke alloys. When introduced for the 2008 model year the Lancer was one of the more attractive cars in the segment, with more than a hint of Volvo S40. Today it looks either timeless or mildly dated, take your pick, while staking out the middle ground between the trendy, overstyled Mazda3 and the homely, understyled Subaru Impreza. Select the $150 “rotor glow” orange paint if you desire to attract eyeballs.

The Lancer’s budget-grade interior plastics and switchgear seem much more acceptable (if still behind the curve) when the window sticker is comfortably under $25,000 than when it’s over $35,000. As with the exterior, the cabin’s styling is restrained, with a hint of BMW in the instrument panel’s convex curve from door to door. Optional leather upholstery takes the interior ambiance up a notch, but no one will feel like they’re living large. The new Chevrolet Cruze demonstrates how much more is possible at this price point.

One bonus: the Sun and Sound Package’s 710-watt Rockford Fosgate audio system can rock the neighborhood, though sound clarity at “11” doesn’t seem to have been a top priority. “Punch” the large subwoofer in the trunk up to +6 to shake everything within a 100-yard radius. On the other hand, this package’s keyless access system proved finicky. I never did figure out how to make it work the first time, every time.

The driving position combines the good, the bad, and the ugly. Good: you sit a little lower than in most compact cars, so the Lancer feels sportier and less like the budget compact it is. Bad: the wing spoiler splits the rear view, and is thick enough to largely obscure following cars. (Solution: get the hatchback.) Ugly: the steering wheel (wrapped in overly slick leather) is too far away, and does not telescope. And indifferent: the front seats don’t feel substantial and provide modest lateral support. The rear seat is roomier than most in the segment, but is a little low to the floor.

With the Ralliart’s and Evo’s turbocharged engines kicking out 237 and 291 horsepower, respectively, the GTS’s 168-horsepower 2.4-liter normally aspirated four is clearly third best. But how much power do you need, really, especially when not saddled with the weight of all-wheel-drive? The 2.4 feels much more energetic than the 148-horsepower 2.0-liter in lesser Lancers, and is competitive with the 2.3 in the Mazda3 s and the 2.4 in the Kia Forte EX. There was a time not so long ago that a compact with this much power was considered quick. The 2.4 sounds a little raspy when pushed, almost as if there was a small leak in the intake, but otherwise sings a pleasantly mechanical song. Peak output nearer 200 horsepower might be nice, but as-is the engine’s powerband is usefully broad. Consequently, the five-speed manual’s relatively tall, widely spaced ratios aren’t an issue. Engine speed is about 3,500 at 80, not too bad. The 2.4 is smooth enough that around town I sometimes found myself cruising in third, and could have driven it at 5,000 rpm all day long. Shifting feels like pushing and pulling cables, but it’s easy to find the desired gear and effort is low. It’ll do, but a short throw kit is an obvious mod.

The EPA ratings of 20/28 (improved to 22/31 for 2011) are a little low for the segment. In the real world, I observed from 22 to 28 MPG depending on frequency of stops, and generally averaged 25. A very aggressive drive around a curvy test loop sunk it to 10.1, but this was more a testament to how I was driving the car.

Why bother pushing the Lancer hard enough to nearly sink MPG into the single digits? Because, despite the car’s middling specs and various shortcomings, it’s quite fun to drive. The light steering gets more communicative as it loads up. In hard turns you know exactly what’s going on at the contact patches. The steering is so quick just off center that the car initially felt unstable at highway speeds, but I soon got used to it. There’s a fair amount of roll—some will find the suspension too soft—but no untoward body motions. The Lancer doesn’t feel quite as precise and tied down as the Mazda3, but it’s close. The stability control cuts in a little too early to rein in understeer (which isn’t excessive). The system is unobtrusive—an idiot light is often the only obvious indication that it has intervened—but turning it off permits higher cornering speeds with little risk. The Lancer’s handling remains thoroughly progressive and predictable right up to the limit. The Dunlop SP Sport 5000Ms squeal quietly, so they won’t draw undue attention.

NVH is about average—for 2008. So there’s enough wind and road noise, especially at higher speeds, to make it evident that you’re not in a premium car. The ride is a little thumpy, mostly due to the low profile tires, but isn’t harsh. For maximizing handling short of killing the ride, the tuning is about right.

Ultimately, the Mitsubishi Lancer GTS is more than the sum of its parts. The specs aren’t impressive. The interior and NVH, even less so. And yet it vies with the Mazda3 as the segment’s most enjoyable car to drive. By the end of the week, it felt like a car I’d been driving forever—in a good way. The loaded-up price of $23,000 seems a bit steep, even if it does get you the sunroof, leather, Rockford audio, and various uplevel electronic features. But with generous sales incentives or as a not-much-sought-after used car, and with a 5/60 standard warranty (plus 10/10 on the powertrain for the first owner), the Lancer GTS could be a great buy for the enthusiast on a budget who doesn’t want to drive what everyone else is driving.

Mitsubishi provided the vehicles, insurance and one tank of gas for this review.

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

Just three weeks before, our equally brightly-colored Golf GTi tester crept into a gloomy Tel Aviv filling station literally on its last fumes. No envious glaring this time round; not even a discrete acknowledging nod. We were lucky enough to get a nasty gaze when we asked for five dollars’ worth of fuel.

This goes to show you what the Lancer Sportback Ralliart – we’ll just call it Ralliart – is all about. There’s nothing remotely reminiscent of discretion about this car, what with its spoiler, giant gray rims and that huge intercooler sticking out with absolutely no shame at all. Get it in bright colors – we know you will – and you have a car that even the blind couldn’t ignore.

They won’t, because you’re more likely to hear it before you see it, with a vocal soundtrack accompanied by vigorous pops and the unmistakable whistle of a furious turbo. All of this is not without coincidence, of course. The Ralliart is supposed to remind its driver of its ancestral roots – that is, the Mitsubishi Evolution X. It uses most of the components that make the Evo tick – a 2.0 liter turbocharged engine (295 in its original guise; 241 here) and a six-speed dual clutch gearbox bearing the SST namesake. All of this means it comfortably fits right between the Evolution and the basic Lancer.

Unlike the mighty Evo, the Ralliart is available both in sedan and Sportback (Mitsubishi-speak for hatchback) guises. Our tester is the latter, apparently designed with European consumers and their oddities in mind. The added convenience of the Sportback allows for easier access to the boot if you’re into family hauling, but there’s something fundamentally wrong about a hatchback Ninja – even if it’s only a baby-Ninja.

Inside, the Ralliart’s resemblance to its outlaw sibling is uncanny. It’s essentially the same cabin from the bone-stock Lancer, with added necessities such as imitation carbon trim, aluminum pedals, the obligatory SST shifter (as usual, clumsy and uncomfortable to use) and a Rockford Fosgate audio system. Thank the latter for the enticing array of vividly-colored woofers in the trunk.

Unfortunately, after you finish toying around with the few gadgets in the cockpit, you discover there’s not much more into it – the interior quality is mediocre at best. Low-rent plastics are scattered all around and the cabin’s layout leaves something to be desired. So do the ergonomics: the air conditioning unit is tough to reach unless you have mutant hands and the steering wheel is neither pleasing to look at nor to grip.

But the seats are good – both up front and back. They’re cushioning and fairly supportive and have that soft fake-suede upholstery that mutes any distant longings for leather. It’s also roomy: rear legroom is ample, but the passengers are treated to a fair dose of claustrophobia due to the massive front seats. Trunk space, at 12 cubic feet, is about average compared to rivals – and significantly smaller than the sedan’s. However, it’s a joy to use and much easier to load (and unload) than the four door. The back seats can be folded flat, and doing that will reveal a huge, 49 cubic feet trunk that can haul a huge amount of furniture come moving day.

With the practicality aside and the pedal to the metal, we pointed the Ralliart towards Israel’s finest roads. Despite its 240-plus-one horses, the Ralliart completes the sprint to 60 in a fairly disappointing 7.1 seconds, mostly due to its – gasp – 3,500-odd pound weight. That’s a smudge over the Evo’s weight, while the Big E has a much more impressive stable to carry around.

Specifications aside, the Ralliart feels faster than it is, mostly due to constant engine noise. It may be loud, but unless you measure an engine’s sound quality by the quantity of decibels it emits, it doesn’t stand a chance against the raspy boxer note of the Impreza WRX or the throaty over-engineered track of the Golf GTi. The constant drone of the engine becomes tiring – not to say annoying – almost instantly.

The gearbox works as advertised, meaning it shifts quickly and without any of that sequential-gearbox-feel. It feels like an automatic on steroids – as it should – but it doesn’t shift as smoothly as Volkswagen’s benchmark DSG gearbox. The shifting paddles are handy (pun unintended), but are uncomfortably mounted behind the wheel instead of on it, preventing gear changes in mid-turn. Fuel consumption was disappointing, with the trip computer indicating a likely optimistic 15 MPG for not-too-spirited cross-country driving – that’s Premium Unleaded, remember?

The ride, however, is excellent. In fact, almost too good for this kind of car, with the Ralliart cushioning even the harshest bumps and road imperfections. The reason for this civilized behavior bears a dual sword: the Ralliart carries the standard Lancer’s suspension, which is admittedly very good at absorbing bumps but pretty much useless when trying to tackle a twisty mountain road. It was disappointing to discover that Mitsubishi didn’t fit any electronic wizardry to the suspension – granted, there is a ‘Sport’ button but it does next to nothing and certainly doesn’t change the pampering nature of the car.

And indeed, already on the first hairpin it was apparent that the Ralliart wasn’t born to validate the limits of physics. Thanks to the soft, low-tech suspension, body roll is almost staggering and certainly doesn’t promote the driver’s confidence. Yes, it’s got an active central differential, limited slip diffs and four-wheel-drive, but you’d be hard pressed – literally – to get to the physical limits of the car chassis, in part because of the surprising understeer the diving nose provokes. You can get past it, but it’s not what you’d call a fun experience. Not that you’ll get anywhere close to these limits, thanks to the watchful eye of the electronic nannies – which cannot be fully disengaged.

Where the Evo breaks the laws of physics, amends them and proceeds to break them again, the Ralliart remains firmly within Newton’s grip.

The Mitsubishi Lancer Sportback Ralliart is like the fruit of labor of two wacky Japanese engineers. One wanted a comfortable cruiser; the other a hot hatch capable of showing the Euros how to do it properly.

The result is a car which is neither; the Ralliart’s noisy manners and low-rent cabin prevent it from being a luxurious family hatch, and on the other hand its soft-sprung suspension prevents it from being a true Ninja. There’s no way of avoiding the thought that had Mitsubishi put in a little more effort, they could have had a real ace up their sleeves – but considering the existence of the Evo, would they really want to?

This test drive made possible by iCar.co.il

First impressions can be misleading. Maybe it’s the new car smell. Or the hallucinatory effects of automotive anticipation. But there are times when a thrilling first date can turn into the marriage from hell. That’s why I’m all in favor of pre-purchase rentals and . . . press cars. Yes, carmakers’ fleetmobiles are often pampered ringers. But a week with a car is an excellent way to decide if it deserves a major portion of your/my hard-earned money and ongoing patronage. Quite often, I’ll find that my initial perceptions weren’t quite on target. After sojourning with a Mitsubishi Lancer Ralliart, I can report that first impressions last.

The Ralliart is slotted into the Lancer’s lineup above the GTS and below the Evo. It’s made from parts of both. Outside, it’s a Lancer with the Evo’s snout, aluminum hood and wing. The front looks like one of those algae-eating tropical fish you see snuffling along the sides of aquariums, only angrier. In the middle, it’s standard Lancer. The overweight wing perched on top of the shallow truck doesn’t do anything but obstruct the lower half of the view through the rearview mirror.  Neither I, my twenty-something son, nor anyone else that I asked liked the overall look.

Inside, it’s worse. The black interior is a mosaic of plastics; I counted six different patterns, textures and finishes including the cheesy fake carbon fiber trim that spans the instrument panel.  The interior’s only classy touch: seats upholstered in a sturdy-looking faux suede.

At least the front seats are decent. They mimic lower-line Recaros (the real Recaros are part of a $2750 package). They’re firm, supportive and comfortable. Unfortunately, that’s as far as the comfort goes; the steering wheel feels like it’s in another time zone. This is the first car I’ve driven in a long time where I had to stretch to reach the steering wheel when the seat was far enough back to accommodate my long legs. I ended up driving with my knees splayed at an uncomfortable angle so I didn’t have to position the seatback bolt upright to reach the wheel.

Those with shorter arms will also find it a reach to the radio controls which are spread across the center of the dashboard (fortunately, there are redundant controls on the steering wheel). The AC’s rotary controls are hung beneath the dashboard like a cheap set of aftermarket gauges. At 10K miles, they were already loose in their housing (did I say “pampered”?). Combined with the rattle from the passenger side of the dashboard, I wasn’t getting a good feeling about the Mitsubishi Lancer Ralliart’s long-term durability.

The leather-covered steering wheel, shift knob and shifter boot have contrasting white stitching that looks like a summer camp craft project. Moving the shifter out of park involves lifting a collar that sits on top of that boot. Those without large hands or long fingers will find it cumbersome. Once you’re underway, the first couple of shifts from the six-speed Sportronic SST transmission are as abrupt as a 16-year-old . . . Anyway . . .

Thankfully, once the transmission warms up, the shifts smooth out. You can start to appreciate the dual-clutch action, which knows what gear you need better than you do. That’s good, as the shifter paddles don’t move with the steering wheel and when you’re busy threading through the twisties they’re often out of reach, unless you’re into shuffle steering.

The Ralliart’s goodness lies under the hood: a 2.0L four sporting a single-scroll turbocharger and intercooler pumping out 237hp and 253 lb·ft of torque. The power’s transmitted to all four wheels via an active center differential with limited slip axles front and rear. If that sounds Evo-ish, it is. Unfortunately the suspension holding it in place isn’t. That part is basic Lancer GTS with a bit of additional firmness.

So, in spite of your aspirations of being the next Andrew Comrie-Picard, you end up driving like Jean-Luc Picard: streaking forward at warp speed and then slowing drastically for maneuvering. Don’t get me wrong. It’s by no means a pig in the turns, but with the Evo DNA in the drivetrain, you’d think it would have some in the suspension too. Unfortunately that’s not the case. There’s plenty of grip but the body roll keeps you from wanting to take advantage of it.

I wasn’t impressed with the Ralliart’s boy-racer looks when I first saw it. After a week of driving it I was even less impressed with it overall. The inherent cheapness of the Lancer comes through too strongly for the Evo bits to overcome. If you’re looking for a hot Mitsu on the cheap, look at a used Evo. Or save your milk money until you can afford a new one. But if you buy a Ralliart, in the long run you’ll be looking to sign those divorce papers, STAT.

(Mitsubishi provided the car, gas and insurance for this review. Photos by the author.)

Externally, there’s no mistaking this car’s appearance. A huge, gaping maw at the front kicks-off the theme of exaggeration continued in the hood vents, body skirt and (of course) rather large wing. So yes, it’s ugly. On the other hand, it’s ugly. The base Lancer, already designed with a pitched forward stance and frowning headlights, looks positively aggressive given the Ralliart treatment– a kind of Japanese answer to Chevrolet’s Cobalt SS. A bit too “2 Fast 2 Furious.” But that’s the point.

As a souped-up Lancer, the Ralliart’s interior reproduces many aspects of its donor’s design. Unfortunately, that isn’t a great thing. While there are welcome upgrades– paddle shifters and a leather-wrapped wheel and shifter– the rest of the Lancer’s pedestrian interior is left largely untouched. The radio (sans Nav) presents an ugly interface sprawled out over a convex dash, giving it an air of Trisomy-21. Meanwhile, the HVAC– nestled in a concave, silver strip below the radio– is split into three plain round knobs. It’s not a unified design. The dreariness is not limited to the center stack; the rest of the cabin is awash with hard, unrelenting, black plastics that have become the norm in these cost-conscious times.

Fortunately, my Ralliart tester came equipped with optional racing seats. The buckets offered great bolstering and moderate thigh support. Based on a back-to-back sitting in a Ralliart and an Evo, the Ralliart’s seats are more accommodating and roomy. In other words, Mitsubishi clearly intended the Ralliart as a great street car that’s adequate on the track, and not vice-verse. Still, if you’re dying to communicate the fact that you’re not quite ready for the plush, totally conformist thrones found in a Lexus, these seats are the ones for you.

Underneath all that skin, the Ralliart is a real hodge-podge of Mitsubishi bits (Mitsubitties?) from three other cars. It holsters the same 2.0-liter block and twin-clutch manumatic (with flappy paddles) as the Evo, but with a smaller turbo, detuned to 237hp (as opposed to the Evo’s 291). It borrows its all-wheel-drive system from the previous generation Evo IX. And most of its suspension parts come off the current generation Lancer GTS, the FWD Lancer variant right below the Ralliart. In theory, it sounds like a mongrel, butchered car. In practice, it’s actually surprisingly-well executed.

This current Ralliart is a marked improvement over the last, finally exhibiting the ability to actually rally somewhere quickly. The turbo-four is thrashy and punchy. Coupled with very fast throttle-tip in and a well-mated six-speed gearbox, the blown mill offers brisk performance and rapid shifts all the way to 6000 rpm. The Ralliart’s twin-clutch gearbox is easy to downshift and satisfying to upshift. That it comes with an automatic mode gives the Evo an edge in versatility over some of its traditional competitors (namely, the Mazda and Subaru offerings). On performance alone, the Ralliart’s get-up-and-go is enough to make you question the Evo’s price premium.

Until you hit a bend. By using a sport-tuned suspension from a lowly Lancer GTS, rather than the Evo suspension, the Ralliart reveals itself to be primarily a street car. Over your average neighborhood roads, the Ralliart offers a smooth, almost unexpectedly refined ride – much more Corolla than Evo. Punch it in the corner and the Ralliart rolls like an every-day Suzuki Aerio, despite a deceptive amount of grip augmented by an excellent AWD system. It’s enough to make you truly appreciate those sport seat bolsters. The Ralliart’s not as surgical as an RX-8 or any better than a Civic SI. Still, drivers with resolve to ignore the body roll will find a competent carver that handles with the predictability an AWD sport compact, where understeer only really appears at the very end of its driving limit.

On looks alone, it destroys the Subaru WRX, its perennial rival. The manumatic twin-clutch transmission makes it perfectly suited to the hillside jaunt or the commute. And by giving up about 20% of the Evo’s handling & performance of an, it gains about 100% in refinement. It’s got four doors for the family man, yet comes with a tacky wing for the inner delinquent. If you can live with some dodgy interior materials and/or despise the “girliness” of a hatch-back, the Ralliart is perhaps the most versatile man-child car for $30,000 on sale today.

The Evo’s new X-terior has moved Mitsubishi’s compact sedan from the bargain basement to the penthouse suite. The X’s profile now strongly resembles the Acura TSX and Volvo S40. The new Evo’s snout sports a huge black inverted trapezoid-grille, fender vents, a rear wing and body kit. Thanks to the car’s more svelte shape, the macho mods don’t scream “teenage toy.” Of course, it helps that Audi has made the world safe for gargantuan grilles, and that overpriced body kits are now common on overpriced German machinery.

The old Evo’s interior was cheaper than a one-star Romanian hotel. The new Lancer’s interior is a bit more upmarket, but it’s still a third-rate romance, low rent [Buick] rendezvous. Mitsubishi would have been well-advised to replicate the Alcantara interior of the Prototype X concept. One nit an upholstery shop can’t fix: the semi-swoopy exterior yields a windshield base that stretches out like an African Savanna; it’s a bit alienating for a “driver’s car.” Well-bolstered Recaro seats compensate.

Like just about every car (and person) in recent years, the new Evo’s gained some weight. Yet unlike Subaru, Mitsubishi refused to forsake the World Rally Championship’s 2.0-liter rule in their rally car production variant. Two liters of displacement for a 3500lbs. car? That’s like playing croquet with a toothbrush, isn’t it?

Nope. The Evo’s four-pot may not deliver the Subaru STI’s seamless shove, but once the revs crest 4000 rpm, the Mitsu’s mini-mill pulls like an amphetamine-crazed tractor. We’re torquing 300 ft.-lbs. of twist. And the X’s engine revs so freely that getting into the pleasure zone is not a problem. And then, suddenly, 291 horsepower at 6500 rpm.

Thanks to premium-powered variable valve timing and turbo technology, boost lag is also not an issue– provided you keep the revs up. Otherwise, it’s a second of “what the?” followed by “Holy CRAP!” Missing–and missed: a sixth ratio in the GSR’s manual transmission. The Evo’s engine spins at nearly 3000 rpm at 60mph. An extra cog certainly would have helped boost the mpgs from a never-caned 16/22, in case anyone’s wondering.

The Evo’s strangely-hyphenated, driver-adjustable Super All Wheel-Control deploys a pair of trick, electronically-controlled differentials. Minus the jargon-laden physics lessons and references to the anti-HAL handling nanny (I’m sorry Dave, I’m afraid you can’t not do that), the nose-heavy compact feels balanced, agile, controllable, poised, planted, secure, balletic and ballistic.

Like any great driver’s car, the Evo X makes you a better driver than you are without taking you out of the equation (in every sense of the phrase). Point the Evo where you want it to go, and it goes there confidently, smoothly and quickly. The Evo X’s steering isn’t as quick and sharp as before, but compared to just about any other sedan you can buy— including (especially?) BMW’s new M3— it offers a highly responsive, entirely intimate helm.

There’s only one flaw: a tug at the wheel when digging into the throttle on turn exits. Never mind. Whether going, turning, and stopping, the new Evo has an eager, playful nature that’s all-too-uncommon in the post-Lexus age. Mitsubishi’s supercar remains a blast to drive, even in typical suburban driving. At the same time, it feels much more polished and controllable than before. You don’t have to push it hard to enjoy it. And if you do push it hard, you’ll enjoy it even more.

With the old Evo, potential buyers who could see past the crap interior were put off by its rock-hard ride. Here, as elsewhere, the new Evo ups its game without losing its character. No doubt the new lightweight 18” wheels and improved rubber– plenty pricey and not anywhere near immortal asymmetrical Yokohama ADVANS– have helped matters. The Evo’s no more a Lexus than you are, but it’s not a go-kart, either. Some BMWs are worse (128i anyone?).

The new Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution X has eliminated the previous car’s faults without killing the joy. The punishment is gone; the fun remains. Unfortunately, there is a new and major downside: price. The Evo’s hardware is a steal for $35,600. That’s premium compact territory– without a premium compact interior or a premium compact brand. Those who can’t see themselves spending thirty-five large for a mainstream extreme machine, or simply don’t have a BMW-sized budget, might be happier in the upcoming Lancer Ralliart. Or not.

Never mind the subtext, check out those lines! Designing a good-looking compact car ain’t easy nowadays. You’ve got to maximize interior space, accommodate an expanding complement of airbags and facilitate fuel efficiency (with aerodynamics that force sheetmetal shapes down the slippery slope towards suppository chic). Things can go horribly wrong; reference the Honda Civic sedan. Or the previous Lancer, which was as sexy as dental floss. This one the Mitsubishi design team nailed.

The Lancer’s proportions and details are spot on. The high beltline adds to the impression of size from the outside, yet allows occupants to feel surrounded and safe. The Lancer’s new front fascia copies Audi’s current pig snout and makes it work, flanking the orifice with a set of angry eyes headlights and bisecting the otherwise gaping maw with a suitably wide bumper. Mitsu ripped off the tail lamp design from the Alfa 156– a gorgeous machine that Americans never got the chance to ignore.

The new Lancer is not a stunning design per se– it’s more handsome than drop-dead gorgeous. But it is a stunning development for Mitsubishi. The Lancer is to Mitsubishi what the Altima was to Nissan five years ago: a radical reskin that instantly elevates a plain-Jane model from zero to hero. Unfortunately, the parallel continues inside. 

Thanks to Mitsu’s PR paparazzi, the Lancer’s cabin looks decidedly avant-garde. The flacks focused on the steering wheel, perfect in both diameter and thickness (though littered with stereo buttons and Bluetooth phone controls). They highlighted the Lancer’s sport bike-inspired gauges. They flagged its slick stereo, neatly integrated into the dash with precise, Teutonic buttonology. 

Off camera, the new Lancer’s interior does the time-warp again. It’s a generic Japanese mishmash fabricated with some of the worst automotive plastics inflicted on U.S. consumers since A Flock of Seagulls first crapped on Top 40 radio, with bulbous switches that feel like they were attached with thumb tacks. The seats are nicely supportive, but why Mitsu decided to support the mouse fur industry by covering the Lancer's chairs and roof with rodent pelts is both an aesthetic and ethical conundrum.

Driving the base model Lancer is an eye-opening experience, especially when you realize that (1) the Evo X will obviously be celestial and (2) THIS is what they started with?

The Lancer is just an awful little car to pilot, for sportster and commuter alike. In the pursuit of a compliant ride, Mitsu has fitted the base car with a suspension made out of Twinkies. Potholes send the car bucking in a fit of confusion. And then there’s body roll. Lots and lots of body roll. Quick turns? Out of the question. (Fast corners make you their bitch.) Within minutes of assuming command, my need for speed did recede. I gave up trying to do anything more than get from Point A to Point B in the space of a single day.

Yes, I know: the Lancer’s an economy car. But it could be the only car sold in America that can make an entry level Toyota Corolla or Hyundai Elantra seem like a sports sedan. And the Lancer only achieves 21/29 mpg. How frugal is that? 

The Lancer’s all-new 2.0-liter engine is rated at 152 horses (at an unattainable 6000 rpm). I swear a quarter have bolted for greener pastures. A wide open throttle simply kicks the CVT's droning tone up a notch. This isn’t about being a boy-racer. It’s about needing a sign to apologize to drivers while attempting merges.

What really sucks the life out of the Lancer (and sucks in general): its continuously variable transmission. Unless you opt for the top-o-the-line GTS with fake shift points, the CVT is forever locked into penalty mode. It's no fun at all. 

The new Lancer is a research project gone horribly wrong. On paper, it’s a superb vehicle: 150 horsepower, loads of safety features (seven airbags, including the now popular driver's knee airbag), gadget options galore and racy good looks. But it’s all show and no go.

With Mitsubishi’s American operations just climbing out of sea of red ink, it’s too bad the company forgot to benchmark the competitions' driving dynamics. The forthcoming take-no-prisoners Evo version will no doubt sort that out, but after sampling the base Lancer, I highly doubt Mitsubishi’s ability to rescue its American ambitions from the dustbin of history.

“Stylish” certainly fits. The Outlander's sheetmetal is sports sedan crisp with just enough static lines and ground clearance to assure the macho-minded that “Outlander” isn't the ancient Scottish term for “mall rat.” The CUV’s front end translates the usual SUV design cues into a host of smooth textures, understated lighting pods and clean surface transitions. The rear follows suit with ample glass, logical lines and an integral diffuser in its snazzy rear valence. It’s all very chi-chi.

Thankfully, the Triple-Diamond Boys left the SUV genre’s hose-it-down heritage outside the doors. The Outlander offers a symphony of touchy-feely polymers, panel gap precision and Audi-esque minimalism. Clock the way the Outlander’s beat box integrates into the dashboard’s horizontal sweep. Seamless. Even the nasty stuff– like the imitation aluminum trim surrounding the motorcycle-chic gauge cluster– looks cool. 

Tick the right boxes and the Outlander’s got the right box of tricks. The optional 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo (named after the Firebird Esprit-driving TV detective) has more than enough power to make your dental fillings shake and shiver. It’s a Sirius piece of kit. The sat nav system can store 1200 songs, keep track of your Bluetooth and guide you to your dentist. And you can order a drop-down DVD system to keep the kids amused.

Clearly, Mitsubishi decided to go down the high content route for their latest foray into Crossover County. Even the base Outlander’s luxurious velour-trimmed body huggers are a welcome surprise at this price point, providing all-over comfort for humans both large and small. While the second row slides forward, there’s only one failsafe way to avoid Amnesty International’s condemnation of the Outlander’s “compact jump seats”: opt for the cheaper two row model.

The Outlander’s trick flap-fold tailgate is its party piece. The gate’s flush-fitting lower half unfolds from the bumper for slide and schlep Home Despots and/or doubles as a picnic table for pee-wee football tailgaters. On paper, the Outlander has a class average cargo hole. In real life, the model’s chunky-hunky D-pillar makes it possible to fit big ass square pegs into a moderately sized square hole. 

More proof of the Outlander’s value-oriented proposition lies underhood. The MIVEC-tuned 3.0-liter V6 puts out a respectable 220hp and 204 lb-feet of twist (albeit high atop its powerband). Hooked-up to a standard six-speed autobox, there’s plenty of poke and reasonable fuel efficiency for city commuting (20mpg) and highway cruising (27mpg).

Hang on. Peep the strut tower brace under the hood and [optional] magnesium shift paddles. Could the Outlander’s Lancer underpinnings and available full-time four-wheel drive indicate that we’ve rocked-up in a family-friendly EVO in crossover guise?

Nope. The Outlander’s powerplant has less low-end grunt than your grandmother's vintage Osterizer, while the steering is completely vague about the whole torque steer issue. Push it hard into a bend and the softly sprung dynamics serve up a major slathering of understeer on a supersized body roll. The 3500lb Outlander is tuned for touring duty and nothing more.

Much like the omnipresent road noise at highway speeds, the Outlander’s dynamic bits get old in a hurry. While Mitsubishi touts "rally inspired control and fun unheard of in a family vehicle," the rally involved must have been political and the fun in question has a lot more to do with scaring kids than thrilling adults. Any off-roading more ambitious than an unplowed driveway is equally off limits.

The Mitsubishi's ride strikes an ideal balance between road feel and comfort. As long as you drive responsibly, the chassis will iron out irregularities and crush potholes. Motorsport heritage aside, it’s obvious Mitsubishi put a strut brace under the hood to avoid family fatigue during your next road trip.

In fact, the Outlander is a modern day station wagon, with all the stylistic charms, family friendly gadgets and timeless comfort that implies (“Mommy! He hit me!”). Its dash of panache, impressive standard features, trick tailgate and under 25 large asking price make the Outlander an attractive value proposition. That is, after you buy into the need for a tall station wagon.   

The ninth gen Galant gets some new threads. The proportions aren’t bad, and its strong, chiseled shoulders meld into perfectly proportioned, smoked Altezza taillights. (Who knew that Malibu and sake mixed?) From the side, the Galant’s soaring beltline conforms to The Law of Unintended Aesthetic Consequences; the rear doors look like Lulu the Fat Lady’s thighs. Up front, the aesthetically challenged hood blister meets up with a finned grille, complete with shiny-happy chrome smile underneath. All in all, the Galant is handsome enough– to wear the rental car cloak of invisibility.

As befitting this erstwhile honor, the Galant's interior is as about as cool as drinking milk from a sports bottle. From its brittle switchgear to its rotary knobs soaked in molasses to its rubbery steering wheel, Mitsubishi's sedan-starlet does the near-impossible: falls to match GM's mediocre advancements in interior excellence. While the Mitsu's panel gaps are fingernail thin and the aluminum-effect trim livens-up the dour dollops of flat black, the cabin’s mix of jutting planes, bloated curves and cheap plastics make the Galant ready for the rental car return row, like, now.

Grab your luggage and another problem creeps up; the Galant's strut assists make closing the decklid a challenge for one hand, and unnecessary effort for two. The resonating "thonk" following said action is about as reassuring as a stand up comic moonlighting as a bereavement counselor. The Galant's lack of fold down rear seating is another solid miss.

That said, the rear accommodations are more than slightly salubrious. The fabrics are a pleasing blend of luxury, style and durability, wrapping the finest set of foam cushioning this side of an Olds 88 Royale Brougham. Who needs a folding park bench when the alternative is so much better for the back and the booty? The couch isn't just the Galant's best attribute; it’s class-leading mother-in-law kvetch protection.

The Galant’s standard 140-watt, six speaker, MP3-ready sound system also deserves special mention.  Actually that's a lie. By itself, the beatbox is nothing special. Factor in its ability to overpower the Galant's 2.4-liter buzz box under the hood and it becomes an absolute lifesaver. The MIVEC-tuned four-pot motor makes a respectable 160hp @ 5500 revs, but clock the tachometer above 3500rpm and this mill is ready to rattle itself to pieces. Runs to redline are accompanied by an intake-wheez so strong you can feel the Galant begging for your right foot for mercy.

The Galant’s “Sportronic” automatic serves-up a quartet of cogs with wide-ass gear ratios; a holdover from a time when it was OK to keep a rock as a pet (don’t ask). The Galant's powertrain– and I use that term in its full ironic sense– is no match for the smooth operators available in baseline Camrys and Accords. Even worse, with 3439 pounds of sedan to tote from the airport to the meeting/Disneyworld and back, the Galant's wounded snail pace (zero to 60 in 8.9 very loud seconds) should come as no surprise– at least until you try to merge on the highway.

Curiously, the entry level Galant doesn’t offer ABS braking as standard; you have to upgrade to the ES or “Extra Stuff” model (I swear I’m not making that up) to get Electronic Brakeforce Distribution. At least the Galant has enough airbags to seduce the Stay Puft Man and a front and side five-star government safety rating.

Which is just as well. Although the Galant is about as close to being a rocket ship as a block of cement, it can, eventually, reach normal automotive speeds. Once there, drivers will discover that the Galant's steering, shifting and throttle response were originally extras in The Dead Hate the Living.

The harder you push the Galant, the dumber you feel for bothering. Before unloading SUV-levels of understeer, the Galant pitches under cornering load and dives prodigiously in panic stops. Thrifty drivers on a Budget will get no kicks remembering the Alamo on a twisty on ramp or, more likely, circling for a parking space in a hotel parking lot. At least the four corner disc brakes keep the "fun" in check without hesitation or complaint.

Years ago, the market decided Mitsubishi's bread-and-butter sedan couldn’t hold a spent glow stick to the Camcordima. The market is still right; the Galant deserves its place in rental car infamy. As you will someday learn.

The sight is sobering. I mean, I’ve been driving my own Evo on dirt and snow rally roads for years, at speeds regularly over 120mph, and I’ve never hit a tree like this poor schmuck did. But then I’ve been rallying for a long time and have enough stupid crashes on my permanent record to know better than continue down that path (and over the forest and into the tree). Fortunately, there’s another near-new Evo IX MR sitting outside, and the owner foolishly throws me the keys.

I’m not a boy racer. I’m not even a boy. But boy, the IX MR is quite a car. It’s not particularly elegant; the best you could say is that the fender flares, sharp nose, deep chin, and hard-edged wing make it handsome and sinewy. The interior is downright plain for a $35k sports sedan (OK – the Recaro seats are awesome). Unmodified, it actually sits a little too high on its wheels. Unless you know what it is, you’d probably think this bewinged extrovert is like your little brother: high on bluster but slow on the delivery.

But this is your little brother who becomes the school track star and steals your girlfriend. Specs never tell the whole story, but 286hp, AWD with an active center differential, huge Brembo brakes, and all-aluminum suspension arms make for a good opening paragraph. The story continues when you fire up the 2.0L intercooled turbo engine – in the IX for the first time with variable valve timing – and it settles into a contented purr. It’s not until you really get into the throttle that the thing takes off like a scalded cat, albeit a scalded cat with its claws dug about two feet into the pavement.

I can tell you with some authority that this is one of the five best handling cars available in North America. Certainly it is one of two for less than $35k, and it has four doors and a trunk to boot. It’s better than the Subaru WRX STi – tighter, better balanced, transitions faster, feels lighter. The Subaru actually has a better drive layout, with the engine mass lower and the transmission further back, but by sheer bloody-minded suspension engineering the Evo wins hands down.

Yes, the ride is harsh and the appointments spare. But the turn-in is astonishing – sneeze and you’ll change three lanes – and once you’re sliding, you can drift the car in fourth gear, tires smoking, the world coming at you through the side window, correcting with your fingertips. Wanna feel like a superhero? This is your fastest ticket.

Except physics is a hard mistress, and trees are hard objects. Even the Evo can’t give you more run-out room when you simply went in too fast. In fact, it sort of cheats you: it allows you to go so close to the edge – even over the edge – then gather it all up again, time after time. Except that last time when nothing – not your skill, not your pleas to the heavens, and not even the Evo – can save you from being an idiot.

Anyway, the IX MR is that kind of car: a machine that goes so bloody quick so bloody easily that thoughts of death are necessary to prevent its occurrence. And no wonder: the IX MR is an evolution of an earlier Lancer and, before that, the Galant VR4 of the early 1990s. The Evo is, essentially, a Japanese Porsche 911, constantly honed with one thing in mind: dominant performance for a given drive layout. It’s amazing that a company still struggling to find its place in the North American market can produce a single model that is so focused, desirable and damn near perfect that they hardly need to market it. 

And so, after having driven perhaps a dozen Evos in anger over the last few years, there’s a new Evo IX RS – the even-lighter-weight version – sitting in my shop, taunting me, about to be built into my next rally car. So much for trying not to be an idiot.

Torque steer. It's that squirrelly squirming sensation that tells you that a front-wheel-drive car's driven wheels are desperately scrabbling for grip. The Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is a torque steer poster child. Feed the Eclipse's 263hp engine some major revs and mid-course corrections are instantly out of the question– and that's WITH traction control. All you can do is saw away at the steering wheel, back off the gas and wait for the tires to grab enough tarmac to return you to normal programming.

The Eclipse's tendency to lose traction at the front end is not quite as bad as hydroplaning, but only because it doesn't last as long. And it's true: you can avoid the problem by babying the gas pedal. But here's the problem: an enthusiast can no more resist giving the Eclipse GT's go pedal a proper pasting than they can avoid thumbing through sleazy car mags at a drug store.

Equipped with 'Mitsubishi Innovative Variable timing and lift Electronic Control' (MIVEC), the Eclipse's 3.8-liter V6 powerplant pours on the power from the basement to the penthouse. At the same time, the GT's coffee-can exhaust emits a mid-range zizz that hardens into a determined wail as you enter MIVEC-ian hyperspace. The Eclipse GT's six has so much sonic character that you blip the throttle for the Hell of it, lower the windows before entering tunnels and hold onto gear changes just because you can.

You see my problem? The Eclipse's engine constantly begs for a bloody good thrashing. It gets worse. Floor the free-revving GT in second gear, or third. Once again, the steering wheel torques back. At that point, you're going at least 50mph– which is more than fast enough to make the sudden loss of directional stability a life-threatening experience. If you happen to be cornering at the time, it's worse squared. The Eclipse GT has both an incurable understeer addiction AND a weight problem. When this sucker starts a nose-first slide towards the scenery, well, it's gonna be a while before helm control is yours for the taking. Did I mention that the GT feels a bit skittish at highway speeds?

In short, the Mitsubishi Eclipse GT is the kind of car Prince Charles would have bought his ex-wife if she'd survived her Parisian jaunt that fateful August morning.

Mind you, the Eclipse would have been a far more a stylish way to go than Dodi's S-Class sedan. Mitsubishi's swoopy coupe is a glorious gallimaufry of design cues: a hint of Nissan 350Z, a touch of Lexus SC430, a dash of Audi TT, a reminiscence of Pontiac Grand Am. Put it all together and what have you got? God knows, but it ain't dull. The Eclipse GT's furiously funky shape is adorned with wikkid details, from a windshield so severely raked it could almost double as a coffee table, to a drilled aluminum gas cap (Audi again). Clock that wasp waist, bodacious butt, blistered arches and jewel-effect lenses. These Mitsubishi guys are sick.

The Eclipse's interior is also a stylish step up from generic Japanese. Little details entrance: baseball glove stitching on the shift knob, body-hugging racing seats, sculpted metal door pulls. The GT's [optional] nine-speaker, 650-watt Rockford Fosgate stereo– complete with trunk-mounted 10' subwoofer– tells you all you need to know about Mitsubishi's ability to tune in to the youth market. Now, will someone please tell carmakers that a digital display needn't look a digital watch?

And while you're at it, who's going to convince Mitsubishi to give the Eclipse GT all-wheel-drive? The company steadfastly maintains that the market doesn't want it. They report that just 3% of consumers who bought the last gen Eclipse signed-up for power to all four corners. And? Need we raise the thorny issue of mortality rates, lawsuits and the like? Or should we stick with the carrot, and point out that the GT is only a viscous coupling away from greatness?

I'm serious. If Mitsubishi could tame the Eclipse's torque steer, the car's fresh design, cracking engine, silken six speed gearbox, robust chassis, superb brakes and entirely reasonable sticker price would make it one of the best sports coupes of our time. As it is, the Eclipse scares me to death.