Jaguar’s F-type offers a sensational ride

It’s not such a bad thing that Jaguar’s newest offering comes with a sturdy grab handle, conveniently located on the passenger side of the centre console.

That it’s jovially referred to as a suicide handle is not something my passenger found quite so amusing, despite my best effort at a calming discussion about how the F-type sports car’s technology is so good it’s virtually impossible to unseat the beast, even while proceeding very, very quickly round some rather tight tree-lined bends.It’s not that I aim to terrorise passengers, although my mother would argue the contrary.

But decisions have to be weighed, and choices made. And when you’ve been given carriage of the iconic brand’s first sports car since the E-type, when the sun is shining, the wattle is in bloom and the roads are that stellar blend of isolated and curly, sometimes you have to sacrifice the passenger. Not literally, obviously – mine made it out alive, albeit extracting herself from the rather low-slung but surprisingly comfortable seat declaring: “I think I can actually see beads of sweat on my palms.”

The F-type has taken Jaguar four years to develop and is unlike anything you’d expect. Wide and short, the profile is sleek and agate beads, without any echo of other sports cars you see on the road. It takes a while to get used to the styling, but as much as I cringe at the suggestion, it’s a car a woman could drive without looking like a terrifying alpha-female.

The V8 model sits in roughly the same bucket as the Porsche 911 Carrera, the Audi R8 or the Aston Martin Vantage, and will set you back a little over $200,000. Its base (Jag say “foundation”) V6 model starts around the $138,000 mark, but the middle sibling, the V6S, is what I used to freak out my passenger on that sunny autumn day.The lighter V6 engine means weight is better distributed and gives a more even handling experience. All have whip-quick steering, and I didn’t mind the extra weight of the F-Types compared with others in the market.

Yes it’s a 3.0 litre engine against the V8’s 5.0 litre, and yes it’s “only” got 280 nags, while the big brother has 364 kilowatts, but when it gets down to it, the V6S gives a great ride in the city and importantly sounds almost as good.Hit the gas, push the tacho towards red and bask momentarily in the supercharged squeal of the engine. It makes you smile in the same way reaching the highest point on the rollercoaster does: adrenaline, satisfaction and expectation of even better things to come.

Ease your foot off the throttle and the engine noise detonates.Without being dramatic, do this somewhere like Sydney’s Lane Cove tunnel and there is no better feeling. I’m pretty sure I squealed. As did the driver in the Aston Martin sitting on my tail. And yes, it gave me a bout of “I’m actually surprised to be saying it but I like my car better than your car” smugness.

Jaguar uses a system which cuts fuel to three of the six cylinders in its S series engines as revs drop, then drip-feeding in petrol to generate hundreds of mini-explosions as the fuel and Beads factory.It’s probably the thing I like best about the F-type, but there are other features which kept me equally amused. Let’s not forget the air-conditioning vents that remain hidden in the dash to ensure more of the “cockpit” feel, rising like submarines only when you need air.

While it could be considered mere folly, the door handles are designed to sit flush so as not to ruin the car’s profile. Coincidentally, the system doubles as a deterrent for anyone thinking about carjacking.To that end, the boot has an illuminated internal toggle which releases the boot latch on the off-chance you, or one of the kids, gets stuck inside.I openly doubted how much use it would be, given a grown adult would probably have to be dismembered to fit in the “compact” luggage hold.

You read somewhere on your reading-machine that years ago Brian De Palma made a movie, Passion. Every muckety-muck at some film festival jeered it, and the movie vanished, and now, a lifetime later, it's been rediscovered, released at last, reappraised and roundly toasted and available for you to enjoy on your laptop or flatscreen or your reading machine, which nobody uses to read anymore.

Here's an early expression of concern that what we mostly see in our lives are screens, often screens showing screens, except for those moments when we're staring into cameras—you know, during sex. Here's paranoid sex-video stealing. Here's once outré bedroom gear—Eyes Wide Shut masks, a red-licorice strap-on, a string of anal beads as chromed and wide as trailer hitches—in a film that's less sexually explicit than most cable TV shows.

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Here's '90s Cinemax After Dark's idea of lesbianism, and some sexy saxophone pillow music (from Pino Donaggio) that sounds like the tears of a Nagel print. Here are sumptuously lit corridors and staircases of the sort that are forever turning up in thrillers that aspire to the psychological (and Mel Brooks's High Anxiety), the kind where the architecture is meant to suggest a disoriented mind. And here at last—a little later than would be ideal—is a '70s De Palma murder, and then the wee brunette with the dry-crackle voice sinks into a drugged-out, wrongly accused plot recalling that Steven Soderbergh thing you saw on TCM last week, Side Effects, the one that ground that other girl with the dragon tattoo through something like the same pharmaceutical Hitchcockisms.

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