Spirit of Ecstasy (Or my infatuation with an unattainable Lady, part 2)

Rolls-Royce isn’t the kind of name that regularly appears on these pages; it’s not particularly relevant to any of us and there are some pretty galling nouveau-riche connotations. There is still a strong whiff of Grey Poupon whenever the flying lady comes into conversation.

That said, looking at our most recent instalment of R.A-S.H, in which the brochure for the ’82 Silver Spirit was filleted and digested, an awful lot has changed in Crewe since the early ’80s, not least the fact that Rolls-Royce Motor Cars aren’t built there any more. There have been an awful lot of column inches frittered away on the Phantom over the last ten years, and now I’m afraid I’m going to add to them. The mantle of “best car in the world” is harder to assume now than ever before; the Range Rover, the Jaguar XJ and the forthcoming Mercedes S-Class arguably have some claim to the title. But the Rolls-Royce name must still bear consideration.

I’m obsessed, I admit it. But should this post be taken as a cry for help, or are any of you similarly afflicted?

The Rolls-Royce Phantom has become a familiar sight in the media world, disgorging “flavour of the month” celebrities at red-carpet events, or shuttling faceless but influential heads of industry from one faceless but influential conference to the next. With the bling-obsessed, status-hungry nature of today, The Phantom is undeniably the right product for Rolls-Royce to be producing right now. And that things should have worked out so well wasn’t always guaranteed.

BMW wholly took the reigns of the venerable marque in 2003, after a stint with VW on the saddle. Rover had suffered badly from their BMW experience, but the story has been rather different for Rolls-Royce. Truth is it would have been inconceivable that such a significant name would be treated with anything but the utmost care and consideration and, fortunately, that’s exactly what seems to have happened, though we could be forgiven for having worried. The Germans don’t seem to always get it right when it comes to matters of ultimate prestige.

There was the Maybach, of course; Mercedes reinterpretation of the Zeppelin albeit eighty years later. Coming accross as the obese brother of the W220 S-Class, the Maybach presented luxury as the Germans understood it at the time; more of everything and biggest is best. Available in two available lengths; 5.7 or 6.2 metres, the Maybach was filled with masses of indulgent technology; from rear-seat Wi-Fi setups through to electrochromatic glazed roof panels. The German car was basically a massive boast on wheels. It was damned effective; a sort of road-navigable Learjet, adept at traversing the high-speed roads of Europe at a 150mph cruise, where possible. A staggering technological achievement.

Unfortunately, it was also ghastly. The stacked headlamps were reptilian, the “M” badge meaningless to all but historians, and the lines derivative. Granted, this is all my opinion but, side-on, a guillotined and lengthened Rover 75 would do a passable impression of the Maybach. The Maybach was the most expensive, most advanced disposable consumer white-goods car in living memory.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom, which competed at a comparable price point, was cut of rather different cloth. At its conception the Rolls-Royce name had been sitting almost dormant, with only the Seraph trickling along in production until 2002. That car, though, was strangely lacking in identity; somehow not enjoying the pomp and circumstance of the similar Bentley Arnarge, and encumbered by a BMW V12 that wasn’t really in keeping with the spirit of things. Nice car, but not enough to change the world.

When the Phantom arrived in ’03, it was to stunned silence. Big and unmistakable, it was certainly no shrinking violet and physically forced the world to take notice. It took a little while for the shock to be fully absorbed; for FAB1 Thunderbirds comparisons to disappear and for common sense to prevail. It’s taken me ten years, and suddenly here I am, sitting in one, suddenly overcome by a feeling of admiration, and then lust.

The Phantom makes no apologies for its sheer bulk, but it doesn’t need to. It’s only gross and swollen if seen compared to mere “cars”; if one looks at state carriages for comparison then things start to make sense. I put it to you that the Phantom, existing in a class of one, can never date. It will never look fresh or cutting edge, but it will stand the test of time as a monument, like the Chrysler Building or Golden Gate Bridge. The frontal aspect, with its shoulder-height grille, recalls the Peterbilt 359; a truck which, though of its time, can never be described as dated; but iconic.

But for all its bulk it still looks powerful and assertive. The front wheels are thrust forward, the rearmost pillar is thick and muscular. The pressed swage-line running at ankle-height suggests the waterline of a fast ship at sea. Certainly, I’ve been passed by one of these on a dusky motorway at what  must have been deep into three figures. It passed with the same momentum and grace as you might imagine of a naval corvette, bow raised, stern planted, sending lesser craft left rocking in its wake.

Not pretty, but grand and formidable. Of great presence, and bejewelled with exquisite detailing, from the headlamps which glint with no small amount of menace, to those counterweighted Rolls-Royce emblems in the wheels which forever remain upright. The Spirit of Ecstasy, of course, stands watch over the bow like the figurehead of the great ship the car resembles.

And this remains true of the interior. There is nothing to be said of the passenger environment save to say that it represents similar luxury to an Edwardian Gentlemans club, or perhaps a lounge on the Royal train. You don’t recline with sybaritic indulgence like in the Maybach; you sit upright, elegantly and with decorum. And in perfect comfort, thanks to the thought put in to the seating.

Especially true to Rolls-Royceness, though, is the drivers station, which transcends the status of mere car as notably as the exterior. True, the controls are familiar, as is the layout; but the amount of space, the feeling of being at the helm is again more akin to captaining a ship or, indeed, that Peterbilt I mentioned earlier. Actually, the layout does slightly resemble that of the Silver Spirit, with that purposeful looking big black steering wheel. Controls are kept to a minimum; Rolls-Royce didn’t equate more buttons with more luxury.

The “power reserve” dial is perhaps the only gimmick; it acknowledges that Rolls-Royce routinely omit to include a tachometer, but I suppose it also serves to communicate just how much potency there lies sleeping under that long foredeck. The Phantom is after all, a very fast conveyance.

But my favourite feature, the one that endears me to the Phantom most of all, is also one of its flaws. It’s one of the peccadilloes that journalists love to look down upon to the point where it gets blown out of all proportion. That point is that, some of the minor controls have switches that I immediately recognise from my Fathers E39 5-Series.

The electric window and mirror adjustment control, albeit dipped in chrome, is as per mid-2000s sales-rep issue. The three-stage switch for the heated seats has the same lowly origin. As does the recessed button that gracefully lowers the bootlid. Each of these parts must feel honoured to be installed in such an environment, and to be honest, they’re perfectly OK. Stretching the point to breaking point, you might say that they introduce a common touch to the noble Roller. After all, I know as a fact that my own humble house has exactly the same light-switches as Sandringham Palace. The Queen experiences exactly the same sensation on operating her bedroom light as I do with mine.

Is the Rolls-Royce Phantom the best car in the world? Well, no. To be honest, I think to categorise it as just a car is to undersell it.