Cartorque vol 24: ‘Ferrari Luce’

I want to like electric cars. I genuinely do.

Every time a new one comes out, I tell myself, “Right then, Adam, don’t be one of those people. Don’t become the bloke standing in the pub moaning that everything was better in 1987 while clutching a pint and a vague memory of a V8.”

Electric cars have some genuinely brilliant qualities. They’re fast. They’re smooth. They can make even the most incompetent driver feel like they’ve accidentally qualified for Le Mans. Some of them are genuinely impressive machines.

And then Ferrari unveiled the Luce.

Now, before the angry emails arrive from people who own three turtlenecks and have a framed photo of a charging cable hanging in their hallway, let me be clear. The problem isn’t that it’s electric.

The problem is that it’s supposed to be a Ferrari.

Because when you hear the word Ferrari, what comes to mind?

Passion.

Drama.

Noise.

A screaming V12 that sounds like a brass band being fired through a volcano.

The sort of machine that makes small children point, grown men stop conversations halfway through a sentence, and dogs question their life choices.

Ferrari isn’t just a car company. It’s an event. It’s theatre. It’s automotive opera.

And then along comes the Luce looking like something that escaped from a Silicon Valley focus group.

It’s as though Ferrari gathered all its designers together and said:

“Right, lads. We’ve spent seventy years building some of the most beautiful cars ever made. How can we completely ignore that?”

Imagine ordering a steak at a Michelin-starred restaurant and being presented with a laminated picture of a steak instead.

That’s the feeling.

And the worst part is that I want to defend it.

I really do.

Every fibre of my being wants to stand up and say, “Look, this is the future. Give it a chance.”

But the more I look at it, the harder that becomes.

Because this isn’t a Ferrari that happens to be electric.

It’s an electric car that happens to have a Ferrari badge glued onto it.

And that’s a very different thing.

Ferrari built its reputation on irrationality.

Nobody needs a Ferrari.

That’s the point.

You buy one because it makes your heart beat faster.

You buy one because it’s ridiculous.

You buy one because somewhere deep within your brain lives a small, excited twelve year old who still thinks race cars are the coolest thing ever invented.

The Luce, meanwhile, feels like it was designed by a committee whose greatest ambition is achieving quarterly sustainability targets.

It’s efficient.

It’s clever.

It’s probably packed with technology.

And all of those things are about as exciting as being told your washing machine has received a software update.

Of course, it’ll be quick.

Modern electric cars are all quick.

That’s no longer special.

A microwave can probably do 0-60 in under four seconds these days.

What made Ferraris special was never just speed.

It was the occasion.

The noise.

The madness.

The sense that every journey, even a trip to buy milk, felt vaguely inappropriate.

The Luce doesn’t feel inappropriate.

It feels approved.

And that’s the problem.

Because Ferrari should never be approved.

Ferrari should be reckless, emotional, slightly ridiculous and completely unnecessary.

The Luce may well be an excellent electric car.

In fact, I suspect it probably will be.

But an excellent electric car isn’t what Ferrari is supposed to be selling.

Ferrari is supposed to be selling dreams.

And this dream feels suspiciously like a PowerPoint presentation.

Which leaves me in a frustrating position.

I don’t want to be one of those people who hates electric cars because everyone else does.

That’s lazy.

Technology moves on.

The world changes.

Some electric cars are genuinely fantastic.

But when manufacturers produce things like the Luce, they make it incredibly difficult to stay positive.

Because if this is Ferrari’s vision of the future, then somewhere, deep within Maranello, an old V12 has quietly started crying into its pistons.

Writer

Adam Woodruff