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There’s something so magnificent about a modern classic; a car that embodies the blessed trappings of decadent yesteryear with the conveniences of today. The Bentley Arnage Red Label is the diamond in the post 2000 lineup of the super luxurious automotive conveyances. Short of the Rolls-Royce Phantom, there is no other motorcar currently offered that impresses one with grand tradition of triumph and majesty.

Préstance.

This French descriptor, which has no direct English translation, is the perfect fit for the Arnage. It is an amalgamation of the words “presence” and “prestige” that when conjoined are the apogean précis of what words are able to express when describing what has clearly been crafted to impress.
Man has the ability to create such beauty. And the Arnage is most assuredly rolling sculpture; a post-war classic that embodies the artful emotion of the masters, without coming off as contrived or forced. There’s beauty to behold in every detail. Like the best works of art, the Arnage’s curves are best studied, felt, reflected upon, and mentally embraced. A true objet d’art.

Standing Tall

Watching the Bentley Arnage arrive to a standstill is as if to observe a large sandbag representing grandeur being placed against the crude tides of modernization. The Arnage, alone, cannot stop the subjugation of automotordom to the technological pragmatists, but it does make one hell of a stand.

And stand this rolling sculpture does. On wheels that are 19 inches high, the car is 59.7 inches tall. The hood line is quite lofty; a veritable barricade that acts as the knight’s shield. The car’s brilliant chrome matrix grille is some six feet from the driver. This stature allows for some of the grandest of automotive entrances.

Embracing the Sport.

This Bentley is not entirely about elegant wafting or grand entrances. What has made the Arnage so popular since the model’s 1998 start is the stab Bentley engineers made at capturing the racing heritage of the LeMans past. Indeed, in recent years, Bentley reclaimed a LeMans victory and the Red Label version of the Arnage seems to be a celebration of success renewed.

This 2003 model, seems to hark the start of a new era of Bentley individualism. Though based on the short lived Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph, the Arnage line quickly took center stage, especially in Britain, where in London the first choice of the chauffeured quickly became (and remains) the sporting, more understated Arnage.
Understated?

Yes. The Bentley for all its imposing dimensions, its chrome, and tall expression, does not match the ostentation of Rolls-Royce; particularly the imposing Phantom. It’s much less cleaved and controversial than the in-your-face Phantom, which suggests an understated grace of the older Bentley. Also, the Arnage manages the appearance of visual strength, while the Phantom looks outright armored (but isn’t).

Take the chrome handle of the driver’s door and with thumb push the integrated button that unlatches the last car door in contemporary times to emulate a bank vault. With smooth weight, the door pulls ajar, which affords an appreciative side view of just how thick the port really is.

Casting one’s gaze downward at the door sill completes the stout image of steel layers melded into a single, solid block. Covered with paint and chrome, it’s the embodiment of solid, beautiful excess.

The cabin, once more, is a reassuring haven of luxury. As with Rolls-Royces, the Bentley’s interior carries on the proud tradition of insulation and promulgation of absolute class. This particular Connolly swathed interior is singularly nautical – a rich blue juxtaposed with omnipresent blonde wood veneers. In yachting terms, there is a delightful sensation of Hatteras about it all.

Looking out over the hood is the vast grey sea (grey has been the highly marketed color of the Arnage T). With few exceptions, I have rarely observed paint so richly beautiful as to transform from mere grey in the shade, to light champagne in the sun. The visual sensation of what’s tactile about the car must be the principal selling point.

Twist, Lift, and Go

The Arnage’s key is interesting detail in and of itself. Modeled somewhat on Volkswagen’s switchblade setup (which is a copy of 1990s Mercedes-Benz keys) the green leather bound fob which houses the skinny metallic key – highly reminiscent of old Rolls-Royce keys – is spring loaded only in the extent that it quietly pushes the metal out of its enclosure.

Absent is the loud plastic “clack” sound of VW keys. Where the Bentley key also differs is that it folds softly back into the enclosure without having to be locked in place – again – unlike the VW which sounds another “clack” when secured home and will pop back out if not fully snapped back in place.

There was significant thought given to this key.

Insert into the ignition and simply twist and let go. The classic iron-clad engine – modernized from its 1950’s design only by the newfangled engine management systems – fires to life with the audible force that its 6,751 cubic centimeters promise.

The many gauges that line the driver’s eyesight come quickly to life. There’s an airplane element here. Whether or not the many gauges come to full use is doubtful, but they serve the driver (and passengers) with information simultaneously and in classic form. They trump scrolling through a trip computer’s menu any day, which, by the way, the Arnage also has.

Pull the leather bound gear shifter vertically upwards to release the curious locking mechanism, and then pull backwards to drive. You’re ready to move.

Excess succeeds by its own virtues.

Mae West in her own sultry way suggested that, “too much of a good thing is always wonderful.” I happen to agree and as I press down on the Arnage’s go pedal its delightfully clear that Bentley’s engineers do too.

Starting off, hauling all the mass of a car that weighs 5,699 pounds, casts shade the length of 212.2 inches of roadway, and sit atop a wheelbase that is 122.7 inches long, is the 6.75 Liter, 400 horsepower, 616 ft-lb of torque, V-8 powerplant that drains premium at the road-going rate that the QEII must when casting off from its pier in Southampton.

The Queen Elizabeth II reference is, in fact, fitting as the Arnage is second largest road-going (non-stretched) sedan on the market. The longest would be the Queen Mary II of contemporary luxury cars – the Phantom.

There’s a big-block roar from the engine at low speed that suggests you’re maneuvering a truck; Ettore Bugatti’s slight of the Bentley Boys’ motorcars still remains quite true. Bentleys are, in a certain sense, “fast trucks” in the way they behave.

I have driven bigger cars (and trucks) than this Bentley, but the saloon’s vastness is always palpable. That said, the force needed to control the movement of this physics challenge is quite minimal.

Steering at low speed is finger touch light. As is the gas pedal toe touch easy. The brake pedal, providing pressure to some sizeable stoppers, is actually quite vague and disconcertingly long in its travel. I anticipated a performance feel.

Still, this car moves forward in what in Victorian British foreign policy terms could be rightly claimed as “splendid isolation”. The cabin is so blessedly quiet once under way that it is easy to be at peace with the world and feel a disconnect from the fact that you are driving.

But the Bentley stops you from entering the realm of Rolls-Royce wafting thanks to the sport-tuned suspension that while quick to react to steering input, does not feel totally at home with itself. There’s a slight wobble and resonance as the car traverses over bumps in the road. It’s almost squirrely.

Despite the light effort, there is plenty of information that is fed to the driver through the steering wheel which gives a sense that there is a connection to the road. This provides reassurance when the cornering gets tough.

Onto the open road.

If there is a serious contender to the Mercedes-Benz S-Class as the world’s best car to roll through long distances in secure comfort, it is the Bentley Arnage. Powering onto the freeway, I felt like I am sitting atop a large bull that is charging into a herd of dairy cows. There’s the under the bonnet roar – that seems so loud at standstill – and now is strangely removed. Where is the fire and brimstone?

The speedometer is a very suspect messenger, indeed, for 90 mph arrives and it seems like a leisurely 55 mph. At cruise, there’s little sense that the four speed automatic transmission is putting forth any effort in pushing the Bentley forward. It feels Honda Accord easy.

Master of the Asphalt Seas.

This nautical Arnage moves with the air of confidence whose bounds are the depths of the ocean. It’s a car that seems to put its occupants on another plane from most traffic and at eye level with the suddenly meek lady in the Chevy Suburban to your left.

The Arnage causes quite the stir, though, again not so much of a stir as a Rolls-Royce creates. The older and more reserved Silver Spur that I drove turned more heads and parted traffic faster. There remains in this MTV age a strange anonymity to Bentleys with segments of the populous.

Paradoxical how the Arnage is at once the clear message of excess and next the quiet message of understated elegance.

The Return.

Parting is such sweet sorrow. My voyage with this Bentley may have been too brief to satisfy a lifetime’s worth of yearning, but not so brief that I did not come away with a strong understanding of mechanics behind the legend.

The Arnage is, for some, the perfect statement of luxurious mastery that can only exist from an established craftsman’s respect for a marque’s heritage.

For me, the Arnage Red Label is the most beautiful of contemporary luxury sedans; a most enchanting chariot that simultaneously protects and entertains while conveying the driver, as every car must, from a to b.

The wondrous sense of occasion that this car espouses coupled with the classical beauty it projects defeats the realities that make this saloon less than practical and assures to be nothing less than eminently desirable.

As from the start, I finish with the words of Cole Porter ~

Picture the evening: a moonlit sky that casts an illuminating blue minuit glow upon the fair, rolling, hedged landscape of Devonshire.

Pan in on a winding, narrow strip of roadway that can’t help but bend and twist with every undulation of crest and hollow. On that road, we find a man and his banker’s grey on evening black Rolls-Royce- at peace with the world. A soft concert of winds and violins plays as the landscape and the car meld.

Peace with the world.

Flash.

Twist the key again and pray that she starts. This Yankee 1988 Rolls-Royce Silver Spur has yet to see natural sunlight since the previous year. The trunk mounted battery is quite dead; the owner elected not to use the handy battery cut-off switch, but, has a charger at the ready for these occasions.

AC/Delco meets plugs.

I wait, crossed with feelings of delight and frustration. As the battery meter’s needle rises precipitously, I study the scene.

It’s a beautiful summer’s day and as much as I’d like to be out cruising in this mammoth paragon of prestige and luxury, I’m forced, by fate, to pause and reflect.

The saloon is very angular. In fact, the Silver Spur is mostly box. It’s only at the very end of what would-be 90 degree angles that we find last minute rounding measures that smooth the two dimensional into the polygonal.

The famed Spirit of Ecstasy stands as tall as a sterling candelabra above the tall Hellenic grille. It’s all so solid to the touch. The fender, too.

That long hood.

There’s a black everflex roof that stands in perfect (if staunchly conservative) juxtaposition to the deep gloss of the banker’s grey body. Every bit of chrome – handles, window/door trim, tailpipe – shines at the hint of light.

It’s all so impressive. The car stands on a 124.5 inch long wheelbase – wouldn’t that swallow a Mini? The overall length is a grandiose 214 inches.

Open the door with the thumb depress and a tug at the chrome handle. Step inside into a haven of classic opulence.

Ah, yes, black Connolly leather. The finest. And it’s everywhere – doors, dash, seats, seatbacks, and parts of the headliner. The rest of the headliner is suede.

The burled walnut veneer – there’s so much of that, too. But it feels right. There are examples of bespoke Rolls-Royces with entire doors of wood, which is too much.

Not so here. Classic restraint. The interior has the distinct feel of an antique. Besides the 80s digital clock and radio, there are few indicators that suggest that this car isn’t from the 1950s. Peering out across the yards long hood, one almost feels as though one were at the helm of a Rolls from the 1930s.

Let’s try to start her again. Insert the key into the dash mounted ignition to the left of the thinly rimmed, two-spoke steering wheel.

Turn the first stop. A flat whine sounds the warning that the ignition is on. Now twist ‘n pray.

The engine fires! Now there really isn’t anything that differentiates this car from the 50s. The same iron-clad, V-8 with “sufficient power” that launched the Silver Clouds of yore is still present in the Silver Spur.

Remove the charger. Close the trunk; its well carpeted and plush looking like the rest of the car, but the long lid affords only a modest 60% opening. Mind your head.

Back to the driver’s seat. Close the door. There’s a metal spring that acts as part of the hinge. The door closes with the bank vault feel of a 1970s Mercedes-Benz. Total reassurance.

Take the thin, plastic, column mounted (3-Speed) auto-shifter in hand, and there’s less reassurance to be had. It’s flimsy and very light to control. One could easily by pass reverse and head straight for the low gear in simple, carefree movement.

Frankly, there’s too much car here to be so glib.

Wait, there’s more waiting to be done. A light on the instrument display cautions that the brakes are not yet ready. Further study reveals that the hydraulic braking system needs to develop pressure before take off – otherwise no brakes.

2 and one half tons and no brakes?

It caught the owner by surprise one day, he assured me, costing him a new rear bumper. You see, the emergency brake also runs on the same hydraulics.

How bizarre.

The light’s gone. No more waiting. Just roll.

The length of that hood is epic. Ride over bumps and the (again) hydraulic self-leveling suspension soaks everything up. But the hood bobs like the bow of a great ship.

The HMS Silver Spur and I’m the captain.

Once underway, there’s a eerie disconnect that one’s actually driving. As a passenger, this sensation is compounded as the interior is so voluminous, and the hood so vast, that the essence of speed and movement is muted.

Opening her up onto the freeway and traffic seems to part for this grand ship. Onlookers – curious, envious, or even nervous all seem to react to the car. The dynamic of what occurs seems akin to nature; the Silver Spur is like a whale that passes through a school of minnow.

The owner chides me that he feels that everyone should have one. I think him egalitarian for saying so.

Save the Mercedes-Benz S-Class, I struggle to think of another car that feels so calm and removed at 70 mph than this Rolls. The interior is indeed hushed and were the clock analog, I’m sure I’d hear it ticking.

And then a funny sensation takes hold. I feel at instant peace with the world. It’s not just a dream. Rolls-Royces really do impart this wonderful sensation. It’s such a blessing.

There’s no urge for pedal mashing or hard cornering – that just defeats the purpose here. Though it should be noted that the Silver Spur does tilt and wallow through the corners and the steering is so removed and light that cornering hard is done through very carefully measured inputs.

Despite this, the whale does grip the road.

“Position” the Rolls to a stop – the brakes are what I refer to as luxury car mushy (rather than sportscar grabby) – and this conservative tank once again draws the full array of subtle public spectacle in an average parking lot.

There’s such respect given to this car. The Rolls, I’ve decided, despite its crude and (even for the 80s) antiquated technology, is the most graceful car I’ve ever driven. It’s utterly civilized and hugely competent at carrying driver and passengers from locale to locale in removed, peaceful opulence.

The Silver Spur ranks as one of my absolute favorites. It’s a wonderfully special motorcar, full of paradoxes, British eccentricity, luxury, grandeur, and romance.

In summation, I quote the Brothers Gershwin:

S’wonderful,
S’marvelous,
S’awful nice,
S’paradise,
S’what I love
To see.