|
BY JAMES McQUILLEN
The progress of culture--to use two loaded words very loosely--increasingly proves Ecclesiastes 1:9: "The thing that hath been, is that which shall be...there is no new thing under the sun." We have recently seen the return of lounge music, Leave it to Beaver, bell bottoms and astronaut John Glenn; with the reemergence of disco onto the cultural landscape, can track suits, cocaine and the DeLorean be far behind? Whether it represents the triumph of the postmodern or simply the baby-boom generation's attempt to recapture the icons of its lost youth, what was old has become new again--in fashion, in entertainment and now in the automotive industry, where retro-mania goes by the name of heritage design. BMW has based a new convertible on the 1955 507, and Ford is reportedly soon to issue a Thunderbird modeled on the classic '57. The most widely publicized and eagerly anticipated automotive blast from the past, however, is the reincarnation of the best-selling car of all time, the Volkswagen Beetle. For sheer ubiquity and design consistency over the years, only the Model T rivals it, and even Ford's pioneering vehicle, lacking any association with flower decals, surfboards and reefer, never attained the quirky symbolism of the Volkswagen Type 1. Because it was easy to afford, easy to drive and easy to maintain and repair, it could legitimately claim to be the "people's car," even to those who distanced themselves from the industrial world that produced it. In the popular imagination, it remains most closely identified with the emerging counterculture during the period between the first Kennedy assassination and Watergate, which out of convenience we call the Sixties. The era of the Beetle coincided, that is, with the era of the Beatles. Not only was it extremely user-friendly, but its simple, diminutive buglike form signaled a rejection of Detroit's lead sled aesthetic. Volkswagen's original ad campaign pretended that it was ugly, but everyone knew it wasn't; right down to the distinctive chirp of its valve tappets, it was cute, and it had character. Remember The Love Bug? When Disney had to cast the role of a spunky, charming car, it chose a Bug. A Humvee could never be Herbie. So how well does the New Beetle capture the spirit? Its rounded shape echoes that of the old, and in a sea of sport-utility vehicles, it is refreshingly distinctive. It is considerably more slick than the original, though; with door handles, mirror housing, bumpers and rocker panel color-keyed and smoothly integrated into the body, it looks like a reinterpretation by Michael Graves, a car with built-in quotation marks. Even the engine, now in front, is a marvel of clean design, but it doesn't invite tinkering the way the old one did. Tune it up yourself? Fat chance. Indeed, it is an altogether different kind of machine, essentially just a Beetle-like body on a Golf chassis. Zippy, powerful, roomy and quiet, it is a joy to drive--though purists may find themselves missing the mechanical idiosyncrasies, or at least nostalgically longing for an engine that drowns out the radio or a heating system that doesn't work. The New Beetle's abundant safety features mark it as a departure from the old Bug, which had all the impact resistance of fine crystal. The driver's sinuses were the only air bags, unless you count the trunk; collide head-on with a Chevy Suburban, and you'd be just another squished bug on the grill. (The threat of collisions isn't the only danger. The battery is located under the straw-stuffed back seat; if excessive weight forced the metal frame onto the terminals, the resulting spark could turn the car into Dresden-on-wheels in about three minutes.) We think differently about automobile safety now--to the point that the crash-test dummy has become the Howdy Doody de nos jours--and the New Beetle is a creature of its times. Front and side air bags, anti-intrusion side-door beams, 1998 Federal side impact clearance and optional ABS give the driver the maximum possible feeling of security; all it lacks is bulletproof glass. People love the New Beetle. I was not 30 seconds away from the dealership from which I'd borrowed one when I heard someone cry "Cool car!"; I turned to see a group of teenage boys at a MAX stop waving and nodding their approval. For the next few days, motorists and pedestrians alike pointed and smiled so cheerfully that it sometimes felt as though I were driving Barney past a kindergarten class on a field trip. Not all of the reaction is positive; as I drove down Burnside one evening, a young woman at a stoplight leaned out the window of her old off-white bug, its paint faded and flecked with rust, and yelled, "Grooooss!" But if you want to meet people, this is your car. Sure, it's expensive ($15,200 is the sticker price, and rumors abound that owners are reselling them for as much as $23,000), but you could spend as much money on personal ads and not get the same results. Part of me--the part that believes in solar energy, has stock in Ben & Jerry's and would probably have voted for George McGovern if I had had the chance--wants to like the new Beetle. The part of me that appreciates a well-made machine definitely likes it. But the part that watches in dismay and disbelief as cultural icons disappear into the maw of commerce tells me it's just a marketing ploy. This is, after all, an era in which Janis Joplin's "Mercedes Benz" is actually used--I still cannot fathom the cynicism--in advertisements for Mercedes Benz; Volkswagen's own ad campaign has freshly mined the underground for its soundtrack. The old Bug symbolized a sort of freedom. It was a commodity like any car, certainly, but in its affordability and the ease with which owners could take care of it themselves, it delivered; its character was defined by the generation that embraced it. The new one just symbolizes a symbol of freedom that comes prepackaged. And these days, that's nothing new.
originally published August 5, 1998 |
