It ain’t me, it’s the car.
I have been more than a bit surprised by the public acceptance regarding the looks of the new Genesis G70. In a world of samey, elephantine SUVs, could it be the compact sedan is now the cool-indie choice of transport? Certainly, the Genesis delivers on all the styling fronts.
From the restrained hexagonal grille that shares geometric language with the headlights and other air inlets, to the sculpted wheel wells and arches, to the carved fluidity of the body-side sheetmetal, to the fast, coupe-like roofline, this sedan talks to people. Even the high trunklid, which shares its roots with the much-derided Bangle Butt of the early 2000s BMWs, works well in this aspect.
I’m not a fan of the chromed asymmetric chevron detail trailing the front wheel arches, but I’ve also envisioned the car without it, and the result would be plain and anonymous. So I get why it’s there.
My personal design philosophy leans toward the, “If it looks right, it is right,” school. And the G70 looks right in proportion and stance. It’s hard to make a compact car look ready to pounce, but the Genesis succeeds. From 50 yards away, it stands out in a parking lot, which is likely why many folks—mostly women—have approached and asked what kind of car it is.
If it were a new BMW, the conversation would be a quick, “Oh, OK.” Many think it’s a Lexus that has finally done away with the Predator grille. But when I tell them it’s a Genesis, there’s often some confusion. American? Japanese? Clearly, this is a brand that still needs to get its name in the forefront of the American car-shopper’s psyche.
It helps that our G70 comes with a paint color that reacts well to a Southern California sunset. Pedants will call it “white,” but the Siberian Ice paint carries a faint undertone of sky blue that gives it depth and warmth.
As for driving the G70 around town, following the car’s early woes and transmission replacement, everything has seemed well. The G70 squirts through microscopic holes in traffic—its 365-hp twin-turbo V-6 providing instant thrust, the suspension (set in Sport mode, natch) keeping the car composed under such sudden moves.
Then it rained. That’s when I discovered that the windshield wipers may have been incorrectly installed. Not the blades—the actual wiper assembly. When actuated, the driver’s-side wiper leaves a larger-than-normal expanse of uncleared rain at the foot of the windshield, and the sweep of the wiper sends the tip past the junction of the windshield and the A-pillar. At the apogee of each wiper sweep, my ears are assaulted by a thwack of the blade overshooting the mark.
But as rain is a rare occurrence here in L.A., I can wait for when the car goes in for its next service to have the dealer investigate.
