Don't Doubt the Diablo
I’d always thought the Diablo was a disappointment. For a successor to the Countach—which had become a carbuncular paragon of Eighties excess—a letdown seemed inevitable.
It was a setup. The Diablo was initially penned by Bertone’s best when Lambo was owned by a Swiss investment firm. But as the planned release approached, Lamborghini changed hands yet again, becoming another of Chrysler chair Lee Iacocca’s collaborative dalliances with flailing Italian brands. (Remember the TC by Maserati? Best if you don’t.)
The concept Diablo’s evolutionary angularity was deemed too alienating, so its edges were planed down by Chrysler’s Tom Gale, who was later responsible for the Prowler. The result edged toward extrusive, like a hammerhead humbled by a hand roller. Marcello Gandini huffily reappropriated his design, peddling it to engineer Claudio Zampolli and disco producer Giorgio Moroder for their failed 16-cylinder Cizeta V16T.
Though the Diablo sported a V-12, a gated five-speed, and guillotining scissor doors, it didn’t align with my youthful distillation of Lamborghini’s essence, an insight honed by years of reading car magazines. Also by a close high-school friend (whose dad happened to be CEO of General Motors), with whom I double-dated to senior prom—me in my 1973 BMW 2002, he in a 1987 Countach purchased for GM competitive intelligence.
My perspective on this model persisted as subsequent charging bulls were released under the deep-pocketed sponsorship of Audi, which bought the brand in the late Nineties. The Murciélago, then the Aventador—each more belligerent and scimitaresque—eclipsed the Diablo, an amorphous automotive dead end.
So when I was recently invited to Lamborghini headquarters in Sant’Agata to drive a host of notable 12-cylinders from the marque’s heritage collection—including the Miura, the Countach, the Diablo, and the Murciélago—the Devil compelled me least.
I was wrong.
The Diablo ended up being the sweetheart of the bunch, an ideal balance between the pure analog cars that preceded it and the computer-enabled ones that followed. Though, in the case of Lamborghini, the terms “analog” and “computer-enabled” both should be in scare quotes, as each is scary in its own way.
The Miura and the Countach have mesmerizing shapes and are progenitors of the categories they invented: mid-engine and wedgy supercars. But they are also forms, first and foremost, with unorthodox engineering supplementally deployed to coerce presumed features in other vehicles into tolerable existence.
Sitting in the Miura was like squeezing into a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe; my knees were at 9 and 3 on the wheel. The pedals seemed intended for transmetatarsal amputees. And the engine literally caught fire during my allotted seat time.
Entering the Countach required physical contortions that would typically result in a crowd worming dollars into my waistband. Clutch, steering, and shifting inputs were worthy of Tough Mudder training. And onboard inhalations of the car’s carbureted miasma would be superseded only by snorkeling in a gas tanker. Did I mention it was raining, rendering the already limited outward visibility positively Poe-like?
Likewise, the Murciélago Versace Edition was handsomely minatory, monstrously potent, and resplendent with Gianni’s gorgon and Greek keys. But it felt unfortunately ahead of its time, its automated manual lurching and bogging nauseatingly on up- and downshifts alike. A stick might have shifted my opinion.
In contrast, the Diablo VT 6.0 SE was an unfettered delight. Its gated shifter snicked with the precision of a McIntosh turntable arm. Its seating and pedal positions mimicked those of a car, as opposed to adjoining chaises at a motel pool. And neither the steering wheel nor the clutch felt lifted from the Iron Age. Both were intentional, deployable, and chatty. The engine was non-asphyxiating and, once in the tenderloin of its powerband, capable of unleashing an infernal roar and batlike acceleration worthy of the car’s name.
The Diablo appears heavy and wide, the size of a highway lane on wheels, but it drives much smaller. Not like a Miata. But maybe two Miatas? Viscously coupled all-wheel drive keeps it rooted when needed while still affording airboat antics. And its gold-over-brown livery was perfectly liver-y, reminding me to visit my hepatologist.
Top-tier Diablo VT 6.0 SEs are up 50 percent in value since 2018, making them now $600,000 cars. Even shitty ones are $250K. So my fantasies do not extend to owning one. But my experience with this auric demon reminded me, once again, of the importance of actually driving cars before casting judgment. As with many things, most too lurid or humiliating to mention, 54-year-old me disagrees with 20-year-old me, my opinion sharpened on the whetstone of experience.
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