Cartorque Vol 18 - ‘The forgotten JDM car’

The Mitsubishi 3000GT. The automotive equivalent of turning up to a black-tie event in a velvet dinner jacket: slightly overdressed, a bit misunderstood, and unfairly judged by people who arrived in something German and predictable.

The 1990s were a glorious arms race. Japan decided it wasn’t enough to simply build sensible hatchbacks that refused to die. No, it wanted to build technological warships disguised as sports cars. And so, alongside the likes of the Toyota Supra and Mazda RX-7, Mitsubishi unleashed the 3000GT or the GTO if you were lucky enough to be in Japan.

And what did the motoring world say?

“Too heavy.”

“Too complicated.”

“Trying too hard.”

“It’s no Supra.”

Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. It isn’t a Supra. It’s a Mitsubishi. That’s rather the point.

Here’s the thing: the 3000GT wasn’t just a sports car. It was an engineering flex. Twin-turbocharged 3.0-litre V6. Four-wheel drive. Four-wheel steering. Active aerodynamics. Electronically controlled suspension. In the early 1990s, this thing had more computers than the average small nation. If you’d told someone in 1992 that their sleek Japanese coupe had adjustable exhaust valves and a rear spoiler that raised itself at speed, they’d have assumed it was a prop from a sci-fi film.

This wasn’t just ambition. It was borderline arrogance. Mitsubishi didn’t dip a toe into the performance pool — it performed a full cannonball while wearing a lab coat.

Yes, it was heavy. Of course it was heavy. When you strap a small IT department, a second steering rack, a turbocharger for each bank of cylinders, and enough wiring to illuminate Blackpool into one vehicle, you do not end up with a Lotus Elise. You end up with something that feels planted, muscular, and utterly unbothered by bad weather.

And that’s the bit people forget.

While rear-wheel-drive heroes were pirouetting into hedges the moment it rained, the 3000GT simply dug in and fired itself down the road like a cruise missile. It was less “delicate dancer” and more “intercontinental ballistic missile with pop-up headlights.” And frankly, that’s wonderful.

It also looks magnificent. Low, wide, unapologetically ‘90s. The early cars with their active aero and aggressive nostrils look like they were designed during a caffeine-fuelled meeting that ended with someone shouting, “More vents!” And the designers said, “Right then.” There’s something charming about that era before wind tunnels sucked the personality out of everything.

And then there’s the interior. It’s peak 1990s optimism. Buttons everywhere. A dashboard that looks like it could launch satellites. You don’t sit in a 3000GT; you assume command of it.

So why the hatred?

Partly because it dared to be complicated. And car enthusiasts, despite pretending otherwise, fear complexity. A simple rear-wheel-drive coupe with a straight-six is easy to romanticise. But a four-wheel-steering, twin-turbo techno-warrior? That requires commitment. Maintenance. Courage.

And yes, parts can be fiddly. Yes, some systems can fail. But when everything works and when you find a well-maintained example it’s magnificent. It feels special in a way many modern cars don’t. Today, everything is quick. Everything has launch control. Everything is competent.

The 3000GT feels like an event.

It’s also criminally underrated in the shadow of the almighty Supra. The Supra became a poster child thanks to tuning culture and certain films involving questionable gear changes. But the Mitsubishi? It quietly went about being brilliantly over engineered and slightly mad.

And that’s why it deserves respect.

Because in an era before accountants truly seized control, Mitsubishi built something ambitious. Something bold. Something that said, “We can do technology too and we’ll put all of it in one car just to prove a point.”

The 3000GT isn’t the lightest. It isn’t the purest. It isn’t the simplest.

But it is cool.

It’s the sort of car you buy not because it’s the sensible choice, but because it makes you grin when the turbos spool and the rear spoiler rises like it’s preparing for take-off. It’s a rolling monument to 1990s excess and in a world increasingly obsessed with efficiency and restraint, that feels rather refreshing.

Undeserved hatred? Absolutely.

Because sometimes, being slightly ridiculous is precisely what makes a car brilliant.

Adam Woodruff

Writer