BRIDGE OF SIZE (assuming the shot of the cars on the little bridge is the opener!)
What price perfection? Fork out £83,755 for a Maserati Quattroporte S, £97,895 for a Range Rover TD V6 Autobiography, £90,810 for a Mercedes-Benz S 350 L or a whopping £172,730 for Bentley’s Flying Spur Mulliner, and you certainly have a right to expect it.
Indeed, sampled in isolation any of these splendid machines might be deemed entirely spiffing. But what’s interesting about bringing them together is not so much the anticipated mutual back-slapping as the resultant mud-slinging; each contriving to highlight the others’ particular shortcomings and deficiencies…
In truth, the new S-class need only stand alone to highlight the disappointing inelegance of its couture. The bows are notably clumsy, with over-heavy chrome round the grille and blobby, innocuous headlamp clusters inducing a wince at every visit with their perceptible failure to accurately mirror the curve of the adjacent grille.
If a car’s headlamps are the only exterior opportunity a designer has to hint at the technological marvels that await within, then I fully expect the S-class to be equipped, Flinstone-style, with holes in the floor to accommodate my flailing feet.
Panel gaps are all over the place, and Mercedes has now taken so much weight out of doors that once shut with stone sarcophagus finality that the hinges are now damped to try and reintroduce at least a perception of mass. 18” wheels look tiny here, but do at least accommodate tyres boasting a side wall promising proper ride comfort.
The rear is just as uncomfortable. It’s all very well styling rear light clusters that artfully ape a reincarnating phoenix after dark but, lights outs, they’re just fat, Candy Crush blobs.
Fret not, however, because -an absolute belter of a Klingon key fob aside- Maserati has made an even better fist of despoiling the Quattroporte. Sure, it’s long, low and black… But so is a beached whale. Gone is the Grace Kelly of profiles that left us so consistently gobsmacked.
The Riva boatyard-trademark triple side vents remain, but the whole now merely resembles a Ghibli subjected to the ministrations of the Spanish Inquisition; the Audi school of stretched Identikit design. I may howl at the next full moon.
Something of a throwback to the vast, chromed land-yachts of 1960s America, the Bentley is appropriately imposing from the front, howitzer-muzzle running lights taking no prisoners. It’s really rather elegant in profile -with the now almost residual flounce of a once far more matronly hip- and utterly underwhelming from behind; the flattened derriere of an improperly trodden, getaway wasp.
This, somewhat surprisingly, leaves the Range Rover as the queen of the catwalk here. Svelte it ain’t. But, like the missus waiting with the rolling pin on the bottom step at 3.00am, it simply won’t be ignored.
As with the Bentley, it does its best work in profile, the Range Rover DNA artfully evident in imposing proportion, the implied boat hull curve to the lower bodywork, a floating roof atop tall glazing and the –albeit now almost residual- sand shark side gills.
But, surely, the grille and lights are become Shanghai-supplicant fussy: the former the lethal blade of some shopping channel chop-it-all kitchen gadget; the latter marred by hilariously over-elaborate running lights styled on a tangle of fairy lights flung at the Christmas tree by a petulant toddler.
On board the Mercedes, we find an all-new, largely elegant interior that would be immeasurably lifted by a far lighter finish to those chthonic swathes of leather. Though some decry the new, two-spoke steering wheel, the driving position’s terrific and seat comfort nothing short of absolutely sensational.
Though the annoying S-class switchgear inconsistency that crept in a few years back is still with us (where once you just pressed a lit icon, now you must work out whether to stab said icon or the unlit button below), the only major ocular clunk is the instrument binnacle; the un-mortared brickwork-clumsy collision of two enormous tablets.
I dislike intensely ALL faux analogue driver’s instruments –a cheapskate sop to gaming geeks who can’t handle the crisp focus of reality- and the left hand screen has become pointlessly oversized; the only possible benefit being that, in map mode, you may actually survey the postcodes of both of Katie Price’s ankles simultaneously.
This is a long-wheelbase S–class -the car designed, first and foremost, in this format- and with the seat diagonally opposite the driver unfurling into the full ottoman, the back is a spectacularly comfortable place to reside, even if a ‘Hot-stone’ massage en route isn’t exactly your heart’s desire.
This seat’s control panel may be first used to fold the front seat and crush it against the dashboard. But the whole process is so agonisingly slow and, frankly, complex that -like shutting down a posh hotel bedroom for the night- you’ll have only just settled when it’s time to get up again.
A reflection of the brand as a whole, the Maserati interior cries out for a tad more TLC. Styling, build quality and a driving position that requires seat hiking because the wheel won’t rake low enough… All merely OK, rather than in any way invigorating.
Certainly, the Quattroporte sports the finest instrument binnacle here, with punchy, backline analogue dials that leave no margin for error. But there are too many negatives, such as a counter-intuitive touch screen that gets so hot you’d best lick your fingertips to assuage blistering, and the lottery that is finding reverse gear on the stubborn little gear lever.
There’s plenty of room in the back, but the seat’s pretty firm and views out restricted. This being a basic specification car, there are no toys either. So just grab that Jesus handle, shut up, and hang on…
Predictably, the Bentley is a lovely place to be. Beautiful leather work, peerless woodwork that I would shun in favour of piano black or engine turned metal, a slightly antiquated feel to diverse elements such as the instrument binnacle, and just a whiff too much chrome.
Both front and rear accommodation proves spacious, cosseting and fabulously appointed. The rear seats are appropriately adjustable, but not as ultimately comfortable as one might hope, not least because the headrests lack the additional pillow which graces both Range Rover and Mercedes.
But there are unacceptable disappointments to this £170,000 environment. Far from a top-drawer Audi offering, for instance, the blatantly VAG-sourced centre console screen has plainly been pilfered from the crate marked ‘Skoda’. The iPod connector in the glovebox is haphazard rubbish, and the car steadfastly refused wireless phone connection, a job my Mazda6 Tourer did without even being asked.
Upstaged by Bentley -and indeed Mercedes- craftsmanship, the Range Rover’s leather trim fares less well under close scrutiny. But in isolation the whole -most notably in this cool Autobiography colour-way- looks tidy, up-to-date and (bar the faux analogue instruments) hugely appealing.
But I find the seats, both front and back, less comfortable than others profess them to be; firm in all the wrong places and not a good fit. The felt-tip fairies revere the folding arm of their ‘Captain’s Chair’ as sacrosanct, yet have swollen the centre console lid to such a size that it now blatantly obstructs arm access to the former.
A Range Rover’s dirty little secret is that there’s never been much room in the back and, in the context of these rivals, life is positively cramped. Knee room is decidedly limited, and the car-door-trouble contingent of Billy Smart’s circus would struggle to shove so much as a toecap under the seat in front. This cabin does, however, offer the best rear view out by a miracle mile.
Right, having established that we are all, largely, sitting comfortably, we’ll begin…
Powertrains are here divided into two camps; those that aspire to proper performance via petrol, and the oilers whose job it is to move these large machines with just enough alacrity to make a 3.0 litre V6 turbodiesel the acceptable choice to a wider audience than mere forecourt misers.
There’s little to say about the latter brace except that, proven and well-honed powerplants, they both move sizeable carapaces in a quiet, smooth, unflustered fashion and, given that their hosts straddle the two tonne mark on the scales, with surprising alacrity.
On paper, the S-class just shades it in the straight line performance stakes but, possibly due to the relentlessly implausible sensation of making rapid progress in a sumptuous summer house on stilts, the Range Rover somehow always feels a whisker faster.
So, why do we constantly forgive the Range Rover a ride quality which, whisper who dares, isn’t that great? It’s certainly better than ever before, but, in the context of both the Mercedes and the Bentley it really does feel surprisingly primitive. The car may isolate admirably, but it seldom relaxes, constantly rolling its shoulders like the over-confident lummox lumbering into the bare-fisted fight arena… An odd sensation, but you do acclimatise, even in the back.
Interestingly, all settles down considerably once the car has toppled elegantly into position and is committed to a corner, at which point both body control and grip levels consistently amaze for a machine of this proportion. ‘Imperious’ is a word oft used to describe this unique driving experience, but if I knick that for the Range Rover, how the hell am I going to summarise the Bentley?
Following the initial exhaust expletive of a Vanquish being fired up in an adjacent village, the Bentley’s stupendous W12 is so quiet that -assuming your mistress affords you momentary respite from whining about the need for yet another pair of Louboutins- the loudest thing on board is the air-conditioning.
The Bentley floats but, happily, doesn’t wallow. This is, however, no Rolls; the ride can become quite nuggety, and is all too prone to the sort of unseemly shudder more usually associated with Captain Oates momentarily rueing his decision to leave the tent.
Yet this suspicion of gristle in the blancmange seems entirely appropriate given the unseemly abruptness with which two and half tonnes of car jumps at the merest dab of throttle, presaging nothing short of monstrous performance allied to minimal fuss, all the way to a double century.
Actually, there’s considerable fuss going on in the driver’s seat because -apparently only connected to the wheels by a phone line with a poor signal- the steering is, at first fondle, frankly terrifying –light, vague in feel and always spoiling for an argument over who’s in charge. You don’t so much steer a Flying Spur, as aim it.
Mercifully, with cornering load comes a modicum of bite, complimenting the substantial levels of poise and grip that only substantial levels of belief and bravery will unearth…
Stand behind the Maserati, and start up is the unique meld of anguish and anger in the cry of John Landis’ werewolf in the London Underground. But no V6 has a right to be this rough at idle and, on board, at anything but properly interesting speeds, the engine merely booms away like the Sunday lunchtime pub bore.
Truth is, at anything less than 100mph, the whole car’s a pain in the arse. Choppy ride, fidgety steering, vicious brakes; the yappy little terrier relentlessly shagging your leg whist you’re trying to enjoy tea at the vicarage….
Make it really fly, however, and for the brief period between throttle prod and prison, it all makes sense. The engine wakes up, the ride settles down, speed counselling admirably resolves the relationship between the helm and the front wheels, and a dab of brakes will no longer leave you retrieving your tonsils from the glovebox… Perfect for that strip of Autostrada between Turin and Milan whereon you find yourself travelling at 125mph one foot six inches from the bumper of the car in front.
Even then, the absence of flappy paddles is annoying. There are buttons on the back of the wheel, but only after the binnacle screen has flashed ‘Radio 3’… ‘Radio 4’… ‘Radio 3’… a few times does it dawn that they’re not actually connected to the gearbox.
After all of which the S-class is little short of bliss; easily the best place to be on the move, wherever you sit. All of these cars boast some form of adaptive suspension, but even without the mythical, radar-controlled ‘Magic Body Control’ reserved for V8 versions, the Mercedes is in a league of its own.
Small road surface imperfections are simply washed away, whilst larger undulations are not so much absorbed as perfectly paralleled by the bodyshell with spectacular control of both pitch and roll. At last, a suspension set-up that properly compliments the quietness and comfort of the cabin it serves. It really is sublime.
Once you’ve switched off the nanny lane-guidance system the handling’s something of a joy to boot. The S-class feels far less isolated from proceedings than the Bentley or Range Rover, and, thanks to a better weight of helm allied to pleasing accuracy, less blind faith is required to commit to a quick corner. There’s more than enough driving pleasure here to foment argument twixt executive and chauffeur over the front seat…
So… If I had enough money to buy the Bentley I’d save up for a Rolls Phantom. If the Maserati were affordable I’d spend the same on a second hand 3.0 litre V6 diesel Phaeton (one of my favourite drives of last year) and a tidy Cayman for weekends. Superb in many ways and something of a bargain, but a trifle bland, the S-Class would be in serious danger of being replaced by a long-wheelbase, all-wheel drive R-Class with the two rear seat format. At least that knows it’s ugly.
As for the Range Rover… Well, the thrashed-out tea-break hybrid on which we’re all agreed today whips the engine from the Bentley, the seats, ride and handling from the Mercedes and the instrument binnacle, er… key and, um, badge from the Maserati and shoehorns them all into the Range Rover.
But until somebody builds that, I’d have to opt for a less tricked-out, long-wheelbase version of same. Still nowhere near perfect for nigh on ninety grand, but such gargantuan all-round competence is hard to ignore.
BOX OUT
the prices I initially quote are as tested, because, Maserati aside, these machines are rammed with optional extras, largely targeting the lounge lizards astern…
The Bentley, for instance, spunks over ten thighsand pinds on a Naim music system of a blistering power and clarity to rival even the sublime Lexus-Mark Levinson axis, his ‘n’ hers DVD players, and a demountable, console located Bury tablet which gives you control of myriad on board systems including aft air-conditioning.
Less wholesome are expensive carpets that don’t look or feel it, and veneered picnic tables so glossy that your snort of Balvenie stands as much chance of survival as a blob of mercury balanced on a beachball.
The Mercedes shells out only fractionally less for the only full ottoman rear seat here, all manner of faintly dubious massage options, a fine Burmester surround sound DVD system and independent rear climate control.
I cannot reiterate strongly enough how sublimely comfortable this rear seat environment is, my only niggle being that the window and blind motors are unacceptably noisy; the mechanised hum of an inferior world.
Offered a similar range of toys for a lesser price tag, including a fine Meridian stereo and a touch-screen rear entertainment system, the Range Rover executive is really only hampered by a lack of space.
Bring on the long-overdue long-wheelbase version with an extra 140mm devoted entirely to rear seat room, and a door large enough to let you out without cleaning the rear wheelarch with your Henry Poole suit trouser calf.