There is a scene in Batman Begins which is both a wink to the Lamborghini cognoscenti and a gesture of the kind of machismo which finds close contact between women exciting.

Bruce Wayne arrives at a party in a black Lamborghini Murciélago Roadster, that most Batman of road cars, disembarks, and is followed by two stunning young ladies who both emerge from the Murc’s single passenger seat:

While a perfect adolescent fantasy and a testament to the Murciélago’s image as a pussy magnet, would a superhero really want to transport his female companions stacked?

And have them pummeled and beaten and crushed by the savage acceleration, their only cushioning each other’s silk-clad body?

In the film, Wayne’s companions end up having to cool their bruises off in a decorative pool, setting off a chain of events which will see our hero shamed in public, depicted as nothing but a moneyed oaf.

Thankfully, the kind people of Lamborghini have though of everything. Granted, their thinking is from back when Batman was a comic book instead of a motion picture franchise, but the decades have not corrupted their logic.

The elegant answer to Wayne’s need is very simply the four-seater Lamborghini Espada, shown here in a painting by Bill Klemm with room to spare in comfort for yet another companion:

Then again, good times do not necessarily require the presence of throngs:

Image Credit: Warner Bros., Bill Klemm, Balázs Fenyő

Profile

The BMW X6 was the first SUV to address the needs of people who desire urban combat stockiness and a coupé profile in the same vehicle. The X6 has since become the most recognizable of this attempted creation of a new breed of vehicle. The ZDX appears to borrow both its roof profile and its side windows from the Bavarian monstrosity:

Look close and you can even see its slightly nipponized Hofmeister kink:

Rear Window

The huge, sloping pane of glass paired with a thin vertical strip at the back as a rear window was most likely invented by Marcello Gandini for his 1967 Lamborghini Espada:

It has since appeared on cars as diverse as the Pontiac Aztek:

—and the Honda CRX, showing that the styling is not alien to Acura’s mothership:

Gandini’s solution is an elegant way to increase rear visibility in a profile which tends to reduce it.

Rear Doorhandles

To steal from Alfa Romeo is forgivable, as they are without doubt the masters of styling details. Like many Japanese carmakers, Acura is no stranger to this practice. The inspiration for the ZDX’s rear doorhandles looks like it comes straight from the Alfa Romeo 156:

The 156, one of the greatest sports sedans ever made, is a 1997 design by Walter de’Silva, currently head of design at the Volkswagen Group.

Photo Credit: Acura, Balázs Fenyő (Lamborghini Espada), NetCarShow.com (Pontiac Aztek), Wiros/Flickr (Honda CRX), nordschleifenfan/Flickr (Alfa Romeo 156)

József Erdősi was an exchange student at the University of Bologna, following in the footsteps of Dante Alighieri and Nicolaus Copernicus. Unlike the millennium-old university’s famous earlier alumni, he was not studying to be a poet or an astronomer: József’s future lay in agricultural engineering. He spent some of his practice time at Lamborghini Trattori, the tractormaking giant founded in post-war Italy by the man who would go on to give Enzo Ferrari bad dreams.

Through the right connections with the right people, József was allowed to transfer for a few weeks to Lamborghini’s other factory—Automobili Lamborghini—in the village of Sant’Agata Bolognese, a hamlet in Emilia-Romagna province between Bologna and Modena. It was here that Ferruccio Lamborghini had founded his sports car manufacture in 1963 to take on Ferrari in neighboring Maranello.

As an engineering student, József spent his days in the brake and engine assembly areas. He was also granted access to the room where Miuras received their scheduled maintenance.

It was not all work and no play for Mr. Erdősi. One day, an enigmatic question came his way about his cardiovascular health. Upon replying in the positive, he found out what it was all about. The young future engineer was about to receive a ride in the fastest road car of its day: a Lamborghini Miura.

“The seat was extremely low. I buckled up with a four-point racing harness. Then, as we rolled out of the factory, the test driver floored it. It was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. He switched to second gear at 90 MPH, third gear at 125 MPH, fourth at 140 MPH and went all the way to fifth gear at an astonishing 160 MPH,” he recalled in a recent conversation. “A field then approached at great speed. I was bracing myself for the inevitable ride through rows of corn when the driver flicked the wheel and took a corner at an unlikely speed. This went on for another forty minutes.”

By József’s recollections, the test driver he rode with that day had been the racing mechanic for Lorenzo Bandini—Ferrari’s Formula One and sports car driver—until Bandini’s fiery demise at the 1967 Monaco Grand Prix.

An avid photographer, József took a number of pictures on black and white Ilford film. His photos offer a unique glimpse into a nascent Lamborghini factory in its 60s heydays. Four years later, Ferruccio Lamborghini would be gone as the factory’s owner and car manufacturers everywhere would be face to face with the incompatibility of monster V12’s with the 1973 oil crisis.

Lamborghini would survive this all in the coming decades until it came to rest as a subsidiary of a German giant, producing fabulous modern cars in a brand-new Audi-built factory on the same spot.

The Miura production line in all its high-tech 1969 glory.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

Parallel to the Miura was built the four-seater Espada, both Marcello Gandini designs using the same 4-liter Giotto Bizzarrini V12 engine.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

Another shot of the Espada line shows a distinct Espada feature: the huge pane of glass on the rear hatch.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

This is a Miura S in for regular checkup. It had been shipped to Italy from California.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

A Miura being serviced, with the engine cover taken clear off.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

A finished Espada with old-school Italian license plates. In the background, you can see the open door of a Miura, which, when viewed from front, resembles a bull’s horn.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

A Lamborghini V12 engine on the test bench, with twelve polished velocity trumpets capping its Webers.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

Another shot of the V12 in the test chamber.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

This is a complete engine-transmission assembly. You can see from its longitudinal setup that it’s meant for the Espada: in the Miura, the same engine is mounted transversely behind the cabin.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

A Miura stripped down to the bare chassis as it is being serviced. For the sake of everyday usability, the velocity trumpets are replaced with common air boxes.

Photo Credit: József Erdősi

There is no way to get used to the size of Ferrari’s 612 Scaglietti. While most Ferraris—indeed, most supercars—tend to be larger in life than imagined, the Scag is a monster. Longer than a Mercedes-Benz E-Class and wider than an S-Class, it is the size and shape of a ballistic missile, especially in dark gray.

The size is a direct consequence of the car’s dual functions of high-speed handling and four-person capacity. Inside are four bucket seats intended to carry in comfort four actual people with eight lower extremities. This is unlike most 2+2’s where the comfortable ratio of humans and legs tends to be an unevenly distributed one to one. And while—unlike the Espada’s very comfortable rear seats—I have never had the opportunity to actually sit in a 612, those who have describe the rear seats as up to the task.

The other factor in the 612’s immense length is the engine, which is mid-mounted. But unlike with the traditional mid-engined layout—where the engine is between the cabin and the rear axle—the Scag’s 5.7-liter V12 sits low behind the front axle, similar to the supercharged V8 in the Mercedes-Benz SLR McLaren. And like the SLR, the 612 has a nose—or substitute your favorite metaphor based on human anatomy—any self-respecting Frenchman would be proud of.

Mounting an engine midships is done to reduce weight in a car’s extremities, lowering its moment of inertia. This comes in handy when you take a corner fast, so I called Nino Karotta, the only person I know who has actually driven a 612 Scaglietti (if you’ll remember, Nino was the guy who showed us how to become a Formula One driver in one day).

The 612 he drove was in an environment rather alien to a leviathan GT—the Hungaroring, a racetrack in a dusty valley on the outskirts of Budapest, home to the Hungarian Grand Prix. He described the experience as similar to what happens when you take any very powerful but heavy car to a track. That while it’s very fast, capable of huge powerslides and much better composed than, say, a large V12 Benz, it is ultimately too soft and too heavy for proper track work. Unlike, he said, the Ferrari 599 GTB, which he drove on the same day and described as a sharp, violent track animal.

We had better find a more suitable environment for the 612 then. And remember: we’re looking for family use here. So let’s head to Regent’s Park, 487 acres of Central London flanked by white stucco houses where rich people live and exercise.

While Central London is perhaps not the perfect location to strecth a 550 HP grand tourer’s legs, nothing beats it when it comes to arriving home. The car is understated, elegant, majestic, no Italian waving of hands apparent in its flowing lines, inspired by a one-off Ferrari 375 MM its namesake Sergio Scaglietti created in 1954 for Italian neorealist film director Roberto Rossellini’s wife Ingrid Bergman.

An elderly couple then arrive in a Citroën C3—this is a very small French car—and maneuver into the space in front of the Ferrari.

They turn out to be the parents of the Ferrari’s owner, a dapper man who has by this time emerged from his house. My mate Máté and I are soon in the midst of a family cavalcade, admiring the lovely Ferrari.

Also in tow is a young girl, Orelia by name, who climbs down from her grandmother’s neck. This is it then: a real, live kid who actually rides in the back of a Ferrari! Our conversation as I remember it:

“Hi Orelia, my name is Peter.”

“Hi Peter.”

“So how is it riding in a Ferrari’s back seats?”

“It’s great. I sit there with my two sisters.”

Roominess? Check!

“And when you go for a ride, do you go real fast?”

Substituting for words, she offers a huge, jubilant nod. We wave our goodbyes. A few steps later, her father reaches down to pick a white strand of thread out of the Pininfarina logo on the left fender.

Gentlemen, a Jalopnik midlife plan is emerging here. Make a quarter million bucks, get a Scaglietti and a fine woman, sire children, then transport them in style and at speed.

And if you have dogs (or elephant guns), go get that Maserati Quattroporte wagon.

Photo Credit: Balázs Fenyő (Ferrari 599 GTB), Máté Petrány and the author (612 Scaglietti)

For someone untrained in the language of vehicular design, it’s not easy to describe what makes a car particularly Pininfarina or Bertone—but suffice to say that once you’ve seen examples of both, you will be able to tell them apart at the blink of an eye. An easy metaphor would make Pininfarina the designer of jet planes with Bertone in the business of sci-fi spaceships.

Think Bertone and you think Marcello Gandini, the man whose forehead the Lamborghini Miura sprang from like Pallas at the incredible age of 27. Gandini joined Bertone in 1965 and—following the Miura and the wonderful Espada—he went on to design cars which crave, simply crave ion drives and proton cannons, first amongst them the Lamborghini Countach.

The news last fall that Pininfarina’s Jason Castriota was to leave his employer of many years to follow in Gandini’s footsteps at Stile Bertone was quite a shocker. Pininfarinas and Bertones just don’t mix. Add to this that the cars Castriota had worked on at Pininfarina—the Maseratis Birdcage 75th and GranTurismo, the Ferraris 599 GTB and P4/5—are very Pininfarina, their aggression expressed not by sharp angles but flowing lines that hit you like an aikido throw.

Yet six months later, Castriota unveiled the Mantide, a car Bertone to its core. And while it has not become easier in the past three paragraphs for someone untrained in the language of product design to describe what that precisely is, there is one design element very easy to pinpoint: the angular rear wheelarches.

Like most things Bertone, this is from Gandini. As far as I know, he first used it on the Lamborghini Countach LP500, the prototype which served as the basis for the first production Countach, the LP400. Over subsequent iterations, the Countach lost the angularity, but the motif cropped up in later Gandini designs like the Maserati Shamal—and this Quattroporte IV that was parked the other day on the very street I live on:

By Gandini’s outrageous standards, this car is a subdued Q-ship, especially in the neutral Germanic silver this example—one of only 1,138—was painted in. The Quattroporte IV was produced at the tail end of Maserati’s doldrums, before the company was acquired by Ferrari, and this is their last car that was built in the old Maserati factory, before the Ferrari people threw out all the old machinery. There was a lull of four Quattroporte-less years at the reborn Maserati until they began building the Pininfarina-designed Quattroporte V—the latest version of which we recently drove in Italy.

It’s comforting to see how quickly Castriota has grokked the essentials of Bertone design, as evidenced by this reference to Gandini’s last car for Bertone. I can’t wait to see how he will manage over the years to balance on the shoulders of the giants he’s standing on—and what he’ll add to the Bertone canon. Based on his work at Pininfarina, one is compelled to think he will do just fine.

Photo Credit: Lamborghini, Cartype, 25ora.ro, Stile Bertone and the author

Yes, I know this will make many of you here hate me, but I must say it — I have never been a fan of the station wagon. Yes, I do see the point — you can fit loads of kids, dogs or elephant guns in the back but then I’ve never thought of the car as a thing to transport kids, dogs or elephant guns. You need a sedan to be grownup cool or a coupé to be rock and roll cool, and that’s about it.

Except that station wagons are now called estates or avants or sportbacks and in recent years, I have come across a few which have rather struck my fancy. The Alfa Romeo 156 GTA Sportwagon, for instance. The Dodge Magnum. In SRT8 trim, of course.

I know people who love estates like motor oil loves to get under fingernails. In fact, two of my friends are planning on converting a Volkswagen Phaeton into one. Google Translate will help you right along with their project briefing—in Hungarian—a quick auto-translated snippet of which reads:

And when they physically exist, the preparation will be tangible things considered, we are bound to a common central images of creative images, crept kombikészítéshez.

Imagine my shock now when, certainly not a man of creative images, crept kombikészítéshez, we arrived at the Villa d’Este last week and the first thing I saw after a BMW 750i dropped us off was a Maserati Quattroporte. A Quattroporte estate, that is.

Flabbergasted I stood, mostly as a result of the intense craving I felt at its lovely butch lines. Although I still consider the Lamborghini Espada the perfect family car, the youngest of them will be approaching thirty-five by the time I acquire one—and kids to carry in it. And thirty-five-year-old handbuilt Italian cars are not as much vehicles for transportation but more vehicles that make for very stylish and very static object by the side of the road as you stand puzzled over their V12’s spewing oil. I am, of course, not making this up:

So this is it then. The Maserati Quattroporte Bellagio Fastback Touring, to finally call it by its ornate full name, with a beckoning slope to its roof. Built by Carrozzeria Touring—the people who invented superleggera in the 30s—, it was first shown at last year’s edition of the Concorso d’Eleganza, an event to which it has now returned unannounced, parked by a gift shop that sells swooningly expensive silk scarves.

A car that has a Ferrari engine up front, acres of leather in the middle, and kids, dogs or elephant rifles in the back. All in a package that’s got the Quattroporte’s irresistable swagger—with a locomotive of a rear end.

Be alert not to carry kids, dogs and elephant guns at the same time though. That would be unwise.

If you are now itching to spend that money which was supposed to finance your kid’s higher education, may I refer you to a PDF at Carrozzeria Touring’s website, which reads in part as follows:

Those interested in buying a Bellagio Fastback Touring must address to Carrozzeria Touring Superleggera or to Rossocorsa, the Milan Maserati dealer. After the delivery of a Maserati Quattroporte saloon (any version) the work starts and is realized together with the client, who’ll be involved in any choice: a unique and fascinating experience, almost impossible to imagine, in the era of mass production also for extreme cars.

There you have it. And one more thing: just as we were about to leave the Villa d’Este, I stumbled into the Bellagio once again, tucked into a corner in an underground parking lot. I tried to take a nice picture of it but this thing in red kept creeping into the frame.

My sincerest apologies.

Photos by the author expect the picture of the broken down Lamborghini Espada, which is by Balázs Fenyő.

On a lovely autumn day in 2006, I folded myself out of the back seat of my friend Larry’s Lamborghini Espada and had a revelation: I have just found the perfect family car.

Orosz, get your head out of the mushrooms, you might be thinking, the Espada is a 40-year-old Italian rustbucket, but see, it all makes sense. The car is Marcello Gandini’s trickiest design—the svelte coupé profile obscures two flawless, roomy back seats, either of which will accommodate my 6'2" frame with ease. Fitting a child seat in there would be a walk in the park.

The Espada also makes a very pleasing noise, is not very expensive at around $40,000 for a driveable example and most importantly, it comes with a cubic mile of style. Based on my rudimentary knowledge of developmental neurophysiology, a child exposed to such a stylish means of transport in her formative years will develop impeccable taste. And a sense for the benefit of extreme speeds.

To test my theory, I went for a stroll in Knightsbridge, London’s perhaps poshest neighborhood. Specifically, the streets around the famous department store Harrods, where the local ultra-rich do their weekend shopping.

Ferrari 456

The first car I ran into that fit the bill was a midnight blue Ferrari 456. This is very similar to the Espada in that there is a V12 up front, two doors on the sides and four seats on the inside. Ferrari introduced it in 1992 as the replacement for that eyesore 400 and made around 3000 of them until the 612 Scaglietti took the stage as Ferrari’s resident leviathan.

It’s a beautiful, compact car, and in spite of the fact that the good people of Knightsbridge receive ultra-high doses of supercar every single day, it still drew looks. The inside is your typical all-leather Ferrari affair—but it showed no signs of occupation by minors. Little wonder: the rear seating area is way less voluminous than that of the Espada. You would need to have kids with very short limbs to feel comfortable back there.

The Knightsbridge crowd thought the same: a couple stopped by to consider it as perhaps their next family ride, but upon seeing the interior, they promptly walked off.

Ferrari 599 GTB

Of course unless you have twins or more than one child, you won’t need a four-seater right away, and if you live in Knightsbridge, your spouse probably has her own supercar. What you need is a grand tourer. And show me a grander tourer than the Ferrari 599 GTB.

It was parked in front of the World’s Easternmost Krispy Kreme Franchise: a favorite haunt for those who have gotten hooked on this wonderful Southern suspension of fat and sugar, yours truly amongst them.

And here, in the tantalizing cloud of frying donuts, my theory was proven. In the passenger seat of the Ferrari was installed a child seat! Pardon the lack of a polarizing filter:

Unlike the Espada, the 599 is definitely not a reasonable choice. You will be charged a quarter million dollars to own this rocketship with its archways of aerodynamics. But consider: putting your child through a good college and graduate school runs up a tab very much in that neighborhood—and there’s no guarantee that she’ll have a happy and productive time.

Alternatively, you can spend that money on a 599. Her hearing will develop in a vat of high-strung V12 engine noise. Her sense of balance will be trained by the sudden instances of acceleration and deceleration produced by the 611 horses up mid-front and the humongous carbon ceramic brakes in the corners. She will smell gasoline and premium leather. All in all, the perfect way to nudge her central nervous system in the right direction.

As I was considering all this, the smell of Krispy Kremes became overpowering. I followed my zombified brain inside and introduced four glazed donuts into my body. A few minutes later, giddy with the sudden overload of sugar, I stumbled outside to see the Ferrari already gone. Inside traveled a small child, her brain happily soaking up every component of that magic which Ferraris are made of, constructing all the right synapses for a balanced adulthood.

Next up, we’ll look at a Ferrari 612 Scaglietti and a real, live kid who rides in the back.

Photo Credit: Balázs Fenyő (Lamborghini Espada) and the author

“The timing and market conditions are just not right for an additional model line,” Lamborghini’s boss of research and development Maurizio Reggiani told Autocar.

The first Lamborghini in two decades with an engine up front and two seats in the back would have been powered by the Gallardo’s V10 or—save our souls—an Audi turbodiesel.

What better time than now to reminisce about a four-seat Lamborghini that did get built: the wonderful Espada grand tourer, produced between 1968 and 1978. While not a sedan but rather, a four-seat coupé, designer Marcello Gandini—of Miura, Countach and Lancia Stratos fame—introduced a twist never since reproduced: the Espada became a coupé not by a roof that swung downward, but by a floor that appeared to swing upward:

The result was a lovely shape which takes some getting used to, but does what no other 2+2 coupé can: enable lanky 6'2" guys to sit comfortably in the back seats. Where they can swing open the back windows and listen to a gasoline-fueled V12 engine do its thing through four chrome-tipped tailpipes.

Photo Credit: Balázs Fenyő (Espada), edans/Flickr (bullfighter)

You know what really counts most in the hearts of rabid highly devoted Italian-car freaks aficionados? Originality. A low-mileage original Italian supercar is sure to shatter your sanity knock 'em dead, but the prices- holy crap! Still, if you're willing to expend a lot of blood a little elbow grease, you can find a nice original Lamborghini that's been rotting stored for a decade or three and get it back into shape in your very own torture chamber garage. Say, something like this 1971 Lamborghini Espada, which has only 49,000 miles on the clock. OK, pessimists, we don't need to hear your oh-so-knowing snide comments about the way it's been sitting for either 26 years or since 1973, whichever you prefer. Yeah, every single component that ever touched any sort of fluid or allowed electrons to flow through it is going to be completely shot need some tinkering, but there's no rust and the interior is nice. All you need to do is find a source for thousands of a few replacement parts and you'll be at the beginning of an endless, painful journey ready to go!

Here we go, for the first time ever: two PCH cars from the same seller! You can get an Espada pretty cheap, so where's the exclusivity, eh? What you need, my friend, is a shiny yellow Lamborghini Murcielago! We've found one that's been in an apocalyptic top-speed wreck a bit of a fender-bender, and the starting bid is only 76 grand! Yes, this 1991 2005 Lamborghini Murcielago is completely destroyed has some damage, and we're pretty sure the seller is keenly regretting his sarcastic statement "Small little damage in the back, but otherwise ready to go." As we know, sarcasm is "common in the salvage industry," and remember: "If you are a girly man, idiot, freeloader, lunatic or other incompetent; please do not bid." You aren't allowed to go look at the car in person, sorry. But still, how hard could it be? It's a real Murcielago!

How many carburetors does your current Hell Project have? If your answer is less than six, then you're not trying hard enough. What if you could step into your garage and feel the warm glow of a hexacarb Italian V12 raising the temperature? Never mind that the "warm glow" is actually the sensation of a Chlorine Triflouride fire- every time you look at your '71 Lamborghini Espada S2 (go here if the ad disappears), you'll know it's worth every depleted paycheck, every square inch of departed knuckle skin. The seller states "When she was put up she was running great," which would be more reassuring if we could tell how long this Lambo has been sitting. Might be ten years, which would make for an eternity of many entertaining fuel-system-related evenings. How many parts are there in six Webers? All the pain will be worth it if when you get it running, because this car "gets the looks when you park at the local Tasty Freeze." It sounds like most of the parts are there, but you never know when you read ominous statements such as "This is a complete car that I had begun to take apart to restore." Still, a real Espada for 15 grand!

If you're willing to lay out a few more Benjamins- 65 of them, to be exact- you could have an honest-to-god Espada that stands a fair chance of actually running... but there's a catch. No, it's not a Fieroborghini, but The General is involved; what we have here is a '70 Lamborghini Espada with Chevy V8 for $21,500. The engine is described simply as a "CORVETTE MOTOR," which could be anything from a 180-horsepower 1977 350 to a (conservatively rated) 460-horse '70 LS7. We're guessing the former is more likely, but who knows? There's also no mention of the transmission, which we sure hope is a manual. This Espada has been sitting for a while, but only a five years- what could go wrong? It just needs a LIGHT RESTORATION!
Thanks to ß®@ƒƒ for the tip.

Gawker Media polls require Javascript; if you're viewing this in an RSS reader, click through to view in your Javascript-enabled web browser.