The first notable racing film of the 1960’s, The Young Racers (1963), was 32 year-old producer/director Roger Corman’s thirty-sixth feature film and thanks to his economic methods, not one of them had lost a penny. Armed with a $150,000 budget; a script originally about bullfighting; and a skeleton crew, he set out to capture the sights and sounds of the 1962 European Formula One season, visiting Monaco, Spa, Rouen, Reims and Aintree. The film proved to be an international success and in terms of production methods it established a precedent, proving the feasibility of simply arriving at a few races and using the paddock as a backdrop to the dramatic action.

Corman’s distributors, American International Pictures (AIP), had a long history of youth oriented B-movie fare, including such cinematic delights as I Was A Teenage Werewolf and the series of Beach Party films which starred singing heartthrob Frankie Avalon. Given the success of MGM’s well-known Elvis Presley racing pictures, it was only a matter of time before Avalon put down his beach ball and picked up a crash helmet. In the atrocious Fireball 500 (1966), he starred as Dave Owens, stock car driver, singer, ladies’ man, and all-round tough guy, who unsuccessfully treads the fine line between laidback cool and rudeness – proving beyond doubt that only Elvis could make such a potentially noxious concoction palatable. The producers followed this with more of the same good ole boy NASCAR nonsense in Thunder Alley (1967), which starred another singing heartthrob, Fabian Forte (who had also appeared in Fireball 500). Both films prominently featured the work of West Coast customizing legend George Barris, who for Fireball 500 created a replica of Richard Petty’s iconic number 43 Plymouth (supposedly raced by Owens) and a barely recognizable Plymouth Barracuda, whilst for Thunder Alley he modified a Dodge Charger. The latter cars toured America promoting their respective films and were subsequently licensed as 1/25^th scale plastic kits, the sales of which rivaled the box office takings.

Fabian Forte would don overalls once again for the last of AIP’s racing films, The Wild Racers, shot over the summer of 1967 in much the same style as The Young Racers, and featuring action from Formula 2 races at Rouen, Brands Hatch, Jarama and Zandvoort (which were cunningly presented as Formula 1 events to the unsuspecting audience) along with the Sportscar race at Magny Cours. An underrated and stylish piece of filmmaking, it also contains some extraordinary footage, much of which centers around the Winkelmann Brabham BT23 driven by the “King of Formula Two”, Jochen Rindt.

After the successful releases of AIP’s films the floodgates truly opened, and with the gradual relaxation of censorship laws filmmakers could focus increasingly upon unsavory characters and violent action for cheap thrills. “Raw Flesh Against Steel!” exclaimed the advertisements for the “crash-o-rama” flick Pit Stop, which centered around ‘Figure Eight’ racing and contained some genuinely hair-raising sequences. With its grotesque array of protagonists and atmospheric black and white photography, Pit Stop is exploitation filmmaking at its finest, though any picture directed by Jack Hill should not, however, be held as a standard, for few such talented men operated in the milieu of B-movie production. Proof enough might come from the ill-advised viewing of writer/director/star William F. McGaha’s 1968 opus The Speed Lovers, which co-starred NASCAR driver Fred Lorenzon as himself, and placed the duo at the center of a rather implausible race-fixing plot to negligible dramatic effect. Equally uninteresting were John Russell’s dealings with a similar bunch of gangsters in Fireball Jungle (1969) and singer Marty Robbins’ romantic exploits in the artistically barren Hell on Wheels (1967). Stock car potboilers aside, feature-length documentaries also exploited the dangers of oval racing – US cinemagoers could hear the racing philosophies of Mario Andretti and Parnelli Jones in Profile of a Race Driver (1966), or see the remarkable story of stock car hero Tiny Lund – Hard Charger (1969) whilst countless others extolled the daring of the Figure Eight racers and dirt-trackers. Perhaps the most interesting documentary of the period chronicled the difficult first season of Grand Prix star James Garner’s American International Racing team. The Racing Scene (1969) followed the team to the Daytona 24 Hours and the Sebring 12 Hours, then to Limerock and St. Jovite for the Formula A events, and combined first-rate on-track footage with an uncompromising look at their mixed fortunes.

The proliferation of adventure and espionage films resulting from the success of the Bond franchise led to the inclusion of brief racing sequences in many films during the latter half of the decade, largely in efforts to lend a little additional glamour to proceedings. Examples included the Spanish caper movie The Magnificent Tony Carrera (original title: El Magnifico Tony Carrera, 1968), which opened with an F3 Lotteria at Monza; whilst the denouement of the atmospheric spy thriller A Dandy in Aspic (1968) played out against the dramatic backdrop of the Avus banking in Berlin during a Formula 3 race; and secret agent Stephen Boyd pulled an associate from the burning wreckage of an F2 Lotus at Brands Hatch in Assignment K (1968). Oddly enough Stirling Moss appeared momentarily alongside racing fan and team owner Peter Sellers in the overblown spoof Casino Royale (1967). When asked in typical fashion to “follow that car” Moss does so, on foot – “Idiot” remarks Sellers “I’ll get Fangio next time”. The legendary Juan Manuel Fangio was himself no stranger to the big screen, appearing in two Argentinian productions: the comedy Viaje de una nocha de verano (1965) and the racing drama Turismo de carretera (1968) along with his cameo in Grand Prix.

The big budget Japanese production Safari 5000, attempted to rival the epic scope of Frankenheimer’s film, and featured action from the Monte Carlo Rally along with the titular event. Unfortunately, in spite of being the highest grossing Japanese film of 1969, Safari 5000 (originally entitled Eiko e no 5,000 kiro) was seemingly never released internationally, at least not in its original form. A heavily edited version was released in Europe in 1972 with an advertising campaign inexplicably featuring artwork of Jacky Ickx in a Ferrari 312 B2 at Indianapolis! Viewers must surely have been somewhat disappointed at the absence not only of Ickx in his Ferrari, but of an intelligible plot.

During 1960s the Italian film industry was booming and the film-makers of Cinecitta were notoriously swift to exploit the latest cinematic trends down to the very last Lire. After the release of Winning several racing dramas went into production. The first, Formula 1: Nell’Inferno del Grand Prix (US title: Maniacs on Wheels) attempted to lend a little authenticity to proceedings by featuring none other than reigning World Champion Graham Hill and ex-Ferrari driver Giancarlo Baghetti (who also served as Racing Advisor) as two of the protagonists, whilst the starring role went to Giacomo Agostini, who, rather unimaginatively portrayed a motorbike champion given his shot at F1 stardom. Though his role could hardly be described as challenging, acting-wise Agostini isn’t bad – he looks suitably unimpressed when first shown his new 4WD Grand Prix car – and thankfully Hill isn’t really onscreen for long enough to appear as magnetically wooden as he had in Grand Prix. The racing sequences interspersed footage from the ’69 Monaco, Canadian, American and Italian Grands Prix with staged sequences shot mostly at Monza using F3 cars. The crew also attended the rainsoaked F2/F3 meeting at Albi and captured some exciting shots of the field  slithering through the downpour. Agostini would return to the big screen for another racing asventure the following year, this time co-starring with pop singer Mal in the risible Amore Formula 2. It was aimed squarely at the teen market and opened to terrible reviews and mediocre box-office, thus ending his spell as a matinee idol. Opening later the same year, Le Mans – Scorciatoia per l’Inferno (English title: Le Mans – Shortcut to Hell) would be the third and final racing drama to emerge from Italy during this period. It starred American actor Lang Jeffries as an ex-driver turned manufacturer, haunted by the memories of the Le Mans crash of 1955 and troubled by the young upstart he has hired to drive for him. Footage from the 1970 Spanish and Dutch Grands Prix along with the Italian round of the Formula 5000 Championship was combined with more Baghetti coordinated slipstreaming action from Monza, this time using a variety of Formula 2 machinery, predominantly a Tecno (doubling for a Ferrari 312B in the race footage). With typical Cinecitta resourcefulness and sensationalism, footage of Jacky Ickx and Jackie Oliver’s fiery collision in Spain, and the aftermath of Piers Courage’s fatal accident at Zandvoort were made integral to the plot – the combination of the latter with a staged accident being a decision of questionable taste.

With the commercial failure of Le Mans the brief vogue for racing films largely ended, and the genre of the ‘road movie’ emerged, which would more accurately reflect the climate of social disillusionment in which they were made, as a series of displaced loners threw off society’s shackles and hit the road. Commercialisation, in the guise of the multiplex cinema, would soon put an end to the era of the exploitation ‘quickies’, just as corporate involvement would effectively end the glory days of the privateer in motor racing. Of course a big budget and decision making by committee is no guarantee of success, just ask the Toyota F1 team, or alternatively take a look at Days of Thunder…

First published in Octane magazine February 2011

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Renault’s little Dauphine saloon would become a prime example of the ‘race on Sunday, drive on Monday’ mentality, scoring several high profile victories straight out of the box. The Dauphine was developed as a successor to the then ubiquitous 4CV, and set new standards for interior comfort and durability, not to mention modernity of design, the result of rigorous testing and a painstaking attention to detail. Spurred on by the immense success of Renault’s compact and affordable family saloon, not to mention post-Suez concerns over petrol supplies, rival firm Simca were busy developing something distinctly more angular in response. The 1000 appeared at the 1961 Paris Salon, importantly beating the rumoured ‘Super Dauphine’ to the marketplace, it was available only in red, white or bleu [sic], and rapidly became highly successful, thanks not only to its modern appearance, but to useful touches such as fold-down rear seats and doors that opened at right-angles. Performance too was a factor, as even after former Simca employee and race-tuning specialist Amédée Gordini had worked his magic on the Dauphine’s little 845 cc engine, it struggled to outperform its 944 cc rival.

Renault were extremely quick to react and, less than a year later, in June 1962 the ‘Super Dauphine’, now called the R8 appeared, a challenge to the Simca in every respect, from its en vogue boxiness to the 956 cc engine. Constructed on the Dauphine chassis, the R8 retained the rear-engined, rear-wheel drive layout, eschewing the trendsetting hatchback of their R4. Whilst this was regarded as something of a backward step, the R4’s pioneering engine cooling system was carried over, and it became the first economy car to feature disc brakes all-round which, along with the Dauphine’s extant rack and pinion steering proved to be performance enhancing refinements. Indeed, the Simca with its drum brakes (discs would finally be fitted to the front wheels in ’69) and unresponsive worm and roller steering, a source of much criticism, suddenly looked rather old-fashioned in comparison.

Nevertheless the Simca continued to sell strongly, especially in the export market and, thanks to an association via Fiat, with famed tuning specialist Carlo Abarth, 100 examples were customised to racing spec, and proved highly competitive during the ’62 season. Given their success, four variants of the Abarth enhanced 1150 were set to enter full production the following year, with upwards of 55hp (compared to 40hp in the standard model), disc brakes and, on the top of the range 1150 SS, a six-speed ‘box, along with a tacho and oil pressure gauge.  Sadly this formidable little car was to be short-lived, for that same year Fiat sold their controlling interest in the company to Chrysler, who swiftly cancelled the project.

Ironically, that same year “Le Sorcier” (The Sorcerer) Gordini was working his magic on the R8, and in doing so was creating one of the most significant cars in French motorsport history, but more of that next week….

“There were, of course, accidents aplenty, a couple of them fatal, but the fierce competition brought such names as Denis Dayan, Jean-Pierre Jarier, Alain Serpaggi  and Jean-Pierre Jabouille into the limelight and is remembered today as one of the most closely contested racing championships of all-time.”

With the Abarth collaboration at an end, and managerial changes in progress, Simca focused their attentions on larger saloons, their 1300 and 1500 ranges successfully replacing the popular Aronde. This left a sizable gap in the market for something small and sporty, aimed at the younger generation, and at the Paris Salon in October 1964 Renault’s, frankly insane, answer appeared.

Originally available only in French Blue with the two signature white stripes, there was no mistaking the R8 Gordini. Thanks to a cylinder head of Gordini’s own design, the 1100cc engine now delivered a staggering 95 hp (almost twice that of the top-of-the-range Major), good for 105 mph and enough to see off a Mini Cooper. Though the suspension was beefed up and lowered, a servo assist added to the brakes, with all that power to the rear wheels, not much weight, and a notorious swing axle, there was little that could really be done to make the Gordini any less of a handful, but unsurprisingly it was these very elements that made it so popular. Mechanically straightforward, and with most parts interchangeable with the standard model, the R8 Gordini was advertised as the ideal car for the motorsport enthusiast on a budget, and with the works’ rally team giving the all-conquering Coopers a run for their money there were bound to be plenty of takers.

La Coupe Nationale Renault 8 Gordini was the brainchild of journalists Georges Fraichard, Paul Dupuis and Alain Bertaut, whose magazines, Action Automobile and Moteurs, provided support along with Renault themselves and petrol company Elf. The championship began in 1966, coinciding with the release of Gordini’s even quicker 1255 and 1296 cc versions, and aimed to give the next generation of French racing drivers the first step towards a professional career, by letting them demonstrate their talents on a series of challenging circuits (along with rallies and hillclimbs in the first year) in equally matched machinery. The Gordini Cup became an enormous success, with heavy press coverage and large crowds drawn by the spectacle of twenty (or more) cars being driven with an unsurprising combination of skill, exuberance, bravery and flamboyance. There were, of course, accidents aplenty, a couple of them fatal, but the fierce competition brought such names as Denis Dayan, Jean-Pierre Jarier, Alain Serpaggi  and Jean-Pierre Jabouille into the limelight and is remembered today as one of the most closely contested racing championships of all-time. Unfortunately for Renault, the racing success of the R8 would not be continued with its successor, the front-engined, front-wheel drive R12 Gordini, introduced in 1971, which simply proved ill-suited to the demands of circuit competition and was retired after just three seasons.

It’s fair to say that Renault’s immensely popular R8 had rather eclipsed the Simca 1000 over the latter half of the sixties, the “Régie” certainly reaping the benefits of their successful racing programme in terms of domestic profile and sales. Simca however, had not been idle, their little car proving enormously successful in the export market, and having lent its chassis and mechanicals to the pretty, but gutless, Giugiaro penned Coupé 1000, in much the same way as the Dauphine/R8 running gear had been utilised in Renault’s stylish Caravelle/Floride range. Complaints over the performance of the 1000 range continued, but it wasn’t until 1967 that the restyled Coupé received a boost in power to 1204 cc and 82 hp, good for 100 mph and with servo assisted disc brakes, suspension and steering to match. Had Abarth still been tinkering with Simcas the 1200S might well have been truly spectacular, but as it was the task fell to Radbourne Racing in the UK who briefly picked up where the Italian had left off.

The little 1000 meanwhile had been suffering from a severe lack of development, with gradual increases in performance generating ever more wayward handling characteristics, a situation addressed by a full overhaul of suspension, brakes and steering for 1969. It was to prove timely, for the introduction of the costly Renault 12 was to effectively spell the end for the Gordini Cup, and it didn’t require much imagination to see that Simca’s new 1000 Rallye might be able to fill the gap left by the beloved R8. The Simca Racing Team would provide much the same opportunity for aspiring drivers, and much the same spectacle for fans as the Gordini Cup. The Rallye models would remain in production until 1978, by which time it had evolved into a fully-fledged racing car, every bit as popular as the R8 had been in its heyday.

For two boxy, unassuming little saloons, the R8 and the 1000 proved not only extremely versatile, but also immensely characterful, and in France they have attained much the same iconic status we reserve for the Mini. Few cars have endeared themselves to so many: from the families to whom they were simply day-to-day transport, to the racers who campaigned them, and the mechanics who worked upon them, they were reliable, fun and easy to fix or even customise. Refined they weren’t, but then when was the last time you saw anyone go misty-eyed in fond recollection of a BMW 5 Series?

First published on discoveryuk.com

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Sadly nobody involved in the production of Rush appears to have reached the same conclusion, and though the resultant film might capture the sound and fury of a racing car unlike any other, what it fails to capture is the speed or skill of Grand Prix racing, in part because it lacks what might be considered a true racing sequence. Where Grand Prix utilises the film medium to its fullest extent in the pursuit of visceral realism, Rush misdirects its audience with a series of heavily edited sensory assaults, none of which lasts long enough to generate any tension from the racing itself. Journalist Simon Taylor, who actually commentated on the ’76 Japanese Grand Prix, reprises his duties here, adding what narrative there is to the images flashing before our eyes, and without him it must be said that even a fan like myself wouldn’t really know what was going on.

Beneath its hyperactive visuals though, Rush is a relatively straightforward biopic, delivering a quick précis of two careers, and exploiting the rivals’ famous differences of personality for ease of storytelling, whilst never really pausing to explore either character. The lead performances – especially that of Daniel Brühl – are uniformly excellent, but I can’t help feeling that the opportunity to explore two genuinely nuanced characters was missed. In reality, as I understand it, Hunt and Lauda were friends, not the best of friends perhaps, but that they remained on good terms at all through a year of such intense competition and adversity is incredible and surely makes the nature of such a relationship worthy of exploration. The protagonists of Rush however display few subtleties, each man having been reduced to his most basic characteristics: the ambitious Lauda with a brittle façade of ruthlessness, whose greatest fear is to find happiness and lose his competitive edge; and Hunt the swaggering, seemingly fearless bon vivant, living for the moment, yet famously prone to tension-induced vomiting before races and whose excesses obviously mask self-doubt.

Perhaps the issue for me is that screenwriter Peter Morgan attempts to cover too much ground, engineering events for the purposes of characterisation, rather than allowing them to be revealed through the extraordinary circumstances as they actually occurred. And it’s very much a two-man show, with Lauda’s wife Marlene popping up to humanise him a little, the supporting cast otherwise having to act like caricatures, especially the other drivers who are portrayed as a bunch of mop-topped half- wits, only Clay Reggazoni being given anything approaching a character – that of a lazy womaniser – though it’s clear he was featured only for expositional purposes.

I must apologise if this review sounds overly harsh, for there is much to like and be admired in Rush, not least Ron Howard’s energetic directorial style, which somehow feels appropriate given the film’s independent roots, lending the story both an air of immediacy and disguising the constant requirement for historical exposition. Anthony Dod Mantle’s cinematography also warrants mention, his innovative use of Indiecam cameras mounted inside crash helmets and on the cars is genuinely striking, whilst his colour palette creates an unmistakably seventies atmosphere, without resorting to the muddy shades of brown we’d usually associate with films of the era.

In spite of my reservations, it’s a pleasure to have had the opportunity to write about a new film set in the world of Formula 1 and the factual inaccuracies one might recognise as an enthusiast are ultimately of little concern, for the average cinemagoer wants only entertainment, not a lecture on tyre wear. The sights and sounds of F1 seventies-style will surely be enough to enthral audiences, many of whom will be experiencing them for the first time, and in the end, as John Surtees said to me at Goodwood, perhaps it’ll inspire a few youngsters to get involved in the real thing, which I guess is what Frankenheimer’s film did for me.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

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Simply put, the Hunter had been built like a tank, Cowan and crew having listened well to the “horror stories” coming back from the reconnaissance teams, and testing every component accordingly. They certainly weren’t the best financed team, but they were the best prepared and the result proved a testament to Cowan’s request for “a car to come last”. Victory for the struggling Rootes Group was an enormous boost, given their recent disaster with the Hillman Imp and workforce troubles, both of which had left them facing serious financial difficulties, and ripe for a takeover by Chrysler. Sadly it would take more than one fortunate win to recapture the days of rallying success with Sunbeam marque, and by this time Rootes had travelled too far down the road of badge-engineering the ‘Arrow’ range – of which the Hunter was part – to take full advantage of an undeniably prestigious achievement.

Development of the ‘Arrow’ project began in 1962, the aim being to create a range of cars sharing a common platform, though given the developmental issues being experienced with the ambitious Imp, Rootes elected to keep things simple, opting to utilise existing components and know-how wherever possible. Thus the Hunter turned few heads upon its appearance in 1966, the neat, workmanlike styling by Rex Fleming and William Towns looking like a straightforward, if slightly bland relation of the Mk II Cortina (introduced later the same year) with which it would be in direct competition. If the adverts were to be believed though, the Hunter was the “finest family car ever designed”, and it’s true to say that the model proved an appealing package to suburbanites and fleet owners alike, being as it was, reassuringly steady in both performance and handling, with excellent fuel economy to boot.

The Arrow range would encompass not only the popular Hunter, but also the elegant Sunbeam Rapier ‘Fastback’ coupé which appeared the following year, the Singer Gazelle and the upmarket Humber Sceptre Mk III. Chrysler however were preoccupied with a new range of Simca-based cars for Europe, and no sooner had the Arrow range been introduced than it was placed on the proverbial backburner, the various incarnations limping undeveloped to their graves over the next ten years. Fittingly the Hillman was the last to go, in 1979, having received a number of superficial upgrades along the way and a more powerful 93 bhp Holbay engine (74 bhp had been standard).

After their success in the London-Sydney event, a pair of Hunters took part in the 1970 London-Mexico City World Cup Rally, but alas lighting didn’t strike twice, with Rees/Thomas/James coming home 15^th of the 23 finishers. The Hunter’s time in the sun might have been fleeting, but it was at least immortalised in the best way possible: by Corgi Toys, whose beautifully packaged replica not only featured detachable wheels, but also a little kangaroo…

First published on Discoveryuk.com

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The Renault 12 is yet another of those cars that was everywhere when I was growing up, and as such it’s really hard to believe that there appear to be only 66 examples left on Britain’s roads, but then as with all cars of its era, rustproofing was conspicuous in its absence. The four-door saloon R12 first appeared at the Paris Salon in October ’69, a smart, well-equipped bridge between the boxy R8 and the stylish R16, the fashionably angular car found no shortage of admirers, however the “arrow-like” styling was low on Renault’s list of priorities. You see the 12 had been in development for four years, with a mission statement to become the epitome of usability and efficiency, destined for worldwide production, so while families in France enjoyed the spacious and genuinely comfortable interior, customers of the Turkish or Romanian produced examples might perhaps have felt secure in its robustness and mechanical simplicity (it even came equipped with a starting handle).

Available at first with only a bored-out 1,289 cc version of Renault’s trusty Cléon unit, a performance version was always on the cards, and in 1970 the be-striped Gordini appeared, using the aluminium 1,565 cc unit from the 16 TS, complete with twin double-barrel Webers, five-speed ‘box and servo-assisted discs all-round. The R12 was designed with its engine mounted over the front wheels and therein should really have lain the key to its success in the Coupe Gordini, for such placement in many ways negated the understeer characteristic in more powerful front-wheel-drive cars. Alas, it also made the steering leaden, and did nothing to counter excessive wheelspin, and as that day at Le Castellet would prove, even Gordini’s magic could only just bring it up to par with its tail-happy predecessor.

Though the R12 Gordini would recover, somewhat, from its inauspicious debut, concerns over the front-wheel-drive layout lingered, and these combined with its high fuel consumption affected sales to the point where production ceased in 1974, after just 5,188 examples had been made. But if it had proven slightly too tame for the racetrack, the R12 performed admirably on the road, and in several guises. In addition to the saloon, an estate version and a van were produced, whilst some of Gordini’s tweaks were carried over into the sportier and more luxurious TS model, introduced in ’72. Renault continued production until 1980, whilst in other territories it would last some 35 years, and with sales totalling 2.5 million there could be no questioning the philosophy behind its inception – as rivals from the likes of Simca lay long forgotten and rusted, “Dacia Denems” continued to roll off the line…

In truth I’m not really sure why I chose to write about the R12 this week, for in no regard is it what one could call exceptional, but there’s something about that quirky, modern for ’69 styling that really appeals to me, and at the end of the day I suppose there’s nothing wrong with simply celebrating a very good car, if not a great one.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

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They’re not exactly common these days, but the sight of a Delta, be it of standard or Integrale spec, invariably conjures for me an image of the mercurial Henri Toivonen, a man of legendary fearlessness, whose works car claimed victory in the ’85 RAC and ’86 Monte Carlo Rallies, its first two races. The Delta S4 was a fearsome car, with both turbo and supercharging in place the 1759cc aluminium engine produced somewhere in the region of 1000hp, which given a total weight of 970kg delivered truly incredible performance and made it perhaps the ultimate Group B racer. Though the extraordinary saga of Group B rallying could fill several books, suffice to say that by 1986 the dangers of racing cars of virtually unrestricted power through unprotected crowds of fans on narrow roads were about to become horribly apparent. After Joaquim Santos’ Ford RS200 ploughed into the Portuguese crowd, killing three, Group B racing was in trouble, and when Toivonen and co-driver Sergio Cresto’s Delta inexplicably flew off a Corsican mountain road, killing both as it fireballed through the trees, it spelled the end of rallying’s most famous era.

It did not however spell the end of racing for the Lancia Delta, which under the new regulations reverted to something rather more akin to the production model, becoming less fragile and even more formidable in the process. The HF Integrale would collect a record six consecutive Constructors’ Championships and carry Juha Kankkunen and Miki Biasion to two Drivers’ titles apiece. Happily for the customer, the roadgoing models edged ever-closer in looks and performance to their sporting counterparts, whilst retaining the basic features that had made the Delta such a success upon its launch in 1979. Giugiaro’s design was essentially that of two boxes: one housing the transversely mounted engine, a configuration which reduced overall length, the other housing the passengers. In addition to proving remarkably comfortable and spacious inside, the Delta was also widely praised for its excellent balance and handling, building a reputation as a real drivers’ car.

The 1980 European Car of the Year changed a lot over the course of its 15 year production run, starting life as a humble, if advanced, hatchback and ending its days as a formidable performance car, but thanks to Giugiaro there was always room for shopping in the boot and kids in the back.

First published on Discoveryuk.com

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