Heritage, Semiotics and a Mazda MX-4×4
Car manufacturers make a big deal about their heritage. VW stitch chequered patterns into the seats of brand new Golf GTIs to invoke the ‘spirit of the original’, Peugeot have the nerve to badge a gawpy faced shopping trolley as an S16, and BMW even hi-jacked someone else’s heritage when they celebrated the original Mini’s 50th birthday as their own. But why bother? What does such Tony Robinson history gazing actually prove?

Two things. First, that car companies were more innovative and interesting in the past than they are now. And second, that they think people don’t like change. So when the mk5 Golf GTi came around with a radical new double clutch gearbox, proper handling and 200hp, VW didn’t say ‘it’s completely different’ they said it was ‘the original, updated’. Despite the fact it was totally new. Apart from the pattern on the seats, obviously.
The point of such comforting, stylised references is to encourage brand loyalty; ‘don’t worry, your new car will have all the things you like about your old car… but it’ll be better’. We don’t ever really feel the past seeping through a car’s controls and dynamics – we’re just told it’s there. In the DNA. Invisible, intangible… but there. Outside of seat fabric semiotics though, it’s largely bollocks. Marketing, not engineering.
Which makes the Mazda CX-7 a massive surprise, because it’s the exact opposite: a car without heritage, that somehow manages to feel like its busting at the seems with DNA. Not just any old gene strings either, but straight from their most iconic, heritage packed car – the mk1 MX5. It’s because of something we’re going to call mechanical continuity – the tiny but tangible feats of engineering that give a car its character, and that can make different machines genuinely feel related. A sense of mechanical continuity is exactly what the badge engineered new Minis and Peugeot S16s lack. There’s no tangible relationship to the cars which apparently inspired them.
Drive the CX-7 and MX-5 back-to-back and, despite the enormous differences in their purposes, the similarities are more striking than the differences. Not because of some flaky reference to the spirit of open-topped motoring either, but because of an impression of genuine ancestry. The gearchanges, for instance, could have been made on identical factory lines. Snicky, short, mechanical, deliberate and satisfying – each car’s box rewards a precise left hand.
The steering too, has a closely related manner. Over-assisted around the dead-ahead, quick to react, detailed under load and linear… both systems feel like they’ve come from the same engineer’s workshop. Light, sharp clutches which punish lapses in concentration. Brakes which bite with little effort but can be modulated easily. Interiors with circular vents, clear dials and stubby gear levers. Bodywork that doesn’t feel as if it’s got class leading torsional rigidity. The cars are separated by 15 years, 750kg, drivetrain layouts, transmissions, purposes and even number of seats… but there’s a clear ancestry pinning them together.
So why don’t Mazda say call it ‘the MX-5… but off-road’ or something? Why don’t they peddle the past to sell the future? They’d got reasonable grounds to do so after all – the CX-7 feels more closely related to an MX-5 than a 207 S16 does to a 205 S16 after all. They could have given it pop-up lights and everything.
It’s probably because they think the car buying public aren’t stupid. They don’t expect us to fall for the marketing spiel… they know that seat fabrics don’t give a new car the spirit of an old one. It’s a commendable, respectable way of dealing with car buyers. Treating them respect, and an assumption that we’re not all susceptible to pretty pictures and break dancers with Gene Kelly’s head. And when was the last time you saw a CX-7? Exactly. Never. We’re too stupid to give it a chance. If it was called the MX-4×4 they’d be all over the place.















































