Archive Road Test: 1977 Chrysler Cordoba Succeeds at the ‘Personal Luxury’ Game

From the August 1976 issue of Car and Driver.

Even the most violent critic of Detroit products must finally admit that opera windows do, in fact, stampede car buy­ers into unreasoning fits of new-car purchasing. Something deep within the dark recesses of the national soul stirs to the familiar litany of formal roof pillars, cock­pit instrumentation, tunneled headlights, creased fender moldings, and stand-up grilles. Chevrolet's Monte Carlo repre­sents the most successful of the auto­mobiles that have exploited the raven­ous appetite for what has come to be known as the personal luxury car.

Enter the Chrysler Cordoba against an opulent advertising backdrop of sun­kissed Spanish architecture, Andalusian ironwork and luminous, doubloon-like coins. In seizing a part of the personal luxury-car turf as their own, the product planners at Chrysler believed they had found a concept that could lead the en­tire corporation out of the fiscal woods. And they have sold the bejesus out of the Cordoba; they can barely keep abreast of the demand.

Now, two years after its introduction, the realization comes that this car does more than simply conform mindlessly to the Monte Carlo prescription. We have a lot more than a Chevelle in a dinner package, yet something different than the gospel according to Thunderbird and Grand Prix.

Personal luxury cars offer an alterna­tive to large status boats because they span the gap from luxury cars to "sporty" intermediate models. Opera windows and other styling cliches pro­vide the necessary luxury appointments, and the smaller size engenders perform­ance and personality associations. These cars have always rankled enthusi­asts because they rely so flagrantly upon their tacked-on facade to sell. But the public seems to prefer personal luxu­ry cars largely due to the ornamentation they offer, so the Cordoba must be eval­uated on those terms, no matter how su­perficial they may seem.

Yet when Chrysler waded into the swamp of personal luxury-car selling, they evidently perceived the essence of the Monte Carlo lesson: Buyers popped for these automobiles because they of­fered a compact edition of luxury, not because a smaller car with a reputation for good handling had been slicked up into a status vehicle. Enter the Cordoba, emphasizing traditional big-car luxury, with little regard for this aimless talk about personality and sporty handling. The mechanical components of the Cor­doba package have retreated far into the background, allowing Chrysler to better focus upon the car's luxury image.

Driving the Cordoba for any length of time is something like hunkering down in a Las Vegas piano lounge amid a riot of crushed velvet for 10 serious days of genuine sloth and indolence. To a sober-minded observer it may seem tedi­ous, but through a semiconscious haze of well-being, the Cordoba driver realiz­es that Chrysler has provided all the lux­ury essentials—free drinks and all-you­-can-eat brunches—and dispensed with trendiness. Some folks may be climbing into lemon polyester suits and puka-­shell necklaces for the Paul Anka dinner show, but the Cordoba owner under­stands that a soft chair and a tall glass are what luxury is really about.

Thus the corporation's priorities have made the Cordoba a passenger's car rather than a driver's car. To that end, they've cornered the Detroit velour mar­ket and attached nylon pile rugs to any­thing that doesn't move—including the bulky spare tire that takes up much of the trunk. Though the doors and dash remain inlaid with trim that is supposed to recall Spanish filigree, the firm's plan­ners have begun to apply some discre­tion to the Cordoba's ornamentation. But while the dashboard avoids the tacky airplane-cockpit effect that has become popular, it also fails to contribute to de­fining the interior. Still, the prime function of the dashboard in a luxury car is to lo­cate the air-conditioning and radio con­trols within easy reach, and in the Cor­doba, you can fiddle easily with the tem­perature and four-speaker stereo knobs until everything is comfy.

But the Cordoba is really about...seats. They wrap around you like huge, overstuffed chairs from a prewar Pack­ard and zip into different positions at the flick of three electric buttons. The new 60/ 40 front bench seat (wider on the driver's side) retains the impression of separate seating thanks to a folding armrest, but it also has the capacity for three-abreast seating when you stuff the whole family into the car for Mother's Day luncheon down at the country club. This bench seat also points out the ten­sion between large sedan and intermedi­ate luxury car that has been built into the Cordoba. It suggests that though poten­tial buyers may be attracted to the flash inherent in the personal luxury-car for­mula, they are still uncertain about stray­ing too far from a large sedan's versatili­ty.

Underneath the Cordoba's fabulous seats, the company has placed a tradi­tional soft-riding car. The Cordoba con­cept does not encompass responsive controls and hard-core cornering capa­bilities; instead, it makes its impression through the sensation of a contemptu­ous momentum that is never irritated by mutations in the road surface. In line with their firm's overall attempt to stan­dardize components, Chrysler's engi­neers have assembled a car from the parts bins, resulting in a package that does nothing outlandish and seldom re­quires any attention from the driver.

Though Chrysler-Plymouth has always seemed to have problems dampening the road noises in its intermediate-body cars, the Cordoba encapsulates its oc­cupants in a soundless cocoon. In terms of road and traffic noise, the Cor­doba is above reproach.

The one innovative component inject­ed into the personal luxury-car formula by the Cordoba is under the hood. Where other cars of its size and weight are burdened by huge, choked-down V­-8s that jitter and stumble, the 400-cubic inch "lean-burn" Chrysler V-8 that comes standard in the Cordoba never hesitates, knocks, or otherwise disturbs the somnolent ride of its passengers.

Lean burn describes this engine's in­creased air-to-fuel ratio, improving emis­sions, that is made compatible with smooth running by electronically con­trolled ignition timing. Sensors monitor engine rpm, manifold vacuum, water temperature, ambient temperature, in­take-air temperature, and throttle posi­tion. One of those demon black-box computers, mounted on the air filter, in­stantaneously translates these variables into spark timing, delivering stumble-free performance. Though a catalyst must be added to pass California emissions stan­dards, the lean burn can dispense with ordinary pollution-control hardware, per­mitting the car to not only run super­-smoothly but deliver another mile per gallon in fuel economy.

Indeed, in the Cordoba the driver notes only that his momentum increases in direct accordance with the whim of his throttle foot. The lean-burn engine en­hances the soporific quality of the Cordoba's interior because the driver's at­tention is never drawn to the engine. In a lighter automobile, this engine could be capable of a few recreational lunges, but an orange light mounted on the left front fender of the Cordoba glares balefully at the driver if he stomps too harshly on the throttle and exceeds the national stan­dard of mediocrity. The lean-burn engine seems to be an easily attainable answer to emissions devices; it's too bad we have yet to see its electronics strapped into a Volare.

In sum, though the Cordoba contrasts with other personal luxury cars in its low-­profile personality and totally passenger-­oriented mechanicals, it reveals the real nature of the personal luxury-car addic­tion. If indeed buyers desire an automo­bile that shimmers in all the right places, they also demand a car with some con­cessions to the multi-purpose large se­dan. Maybe that is why the Cordoba sells so well. Chrysler-Plymouth's histori­cal conservatism may have prevented them from unleashing a flashy personal luxury car, but it also led them to under­stand perfectly—judging from the Cordoba's sales record—the nature of the people who purchase these cars.

Compared to other personal luxury cars, the Cordoba is bulky and bland, but it shows up well when juxtaposed to such exhibitions of excess as the Thun­derbird. That, rather than endless hype about handling, is what people seem to want. When the collective unconscious of America begins to respond to Mer­cedes-Benz, Detroit will build their cars to that austere formula.

Until then, the Cordoba will deliver what personal luxury-car buyers seem to prefer: a plain package that makes the right impressions and can function, with a full list of options beginning with "Co­rinthian leather," as an indicator of status. Indeed, the Chrysler script has had much to do with the Cordoba's suc­cess; for its echo in the Dodge line, the Charger SE, has failed to sell well.

Apparently, the Cordoba buyer wants the style of a luxury car but is none too concerned with the mechanical content. And like a good bartender, the Cordoba keeps your glass full and its mouth shut. It doesn't make any outlandish de­mands, keeps its passengers exception­ally comfortable, and still participates in a certain trendiness. By making the Cordo­ba attractive to both large-sedan buyers and luxury-car owners, Chrysler has pro­duced the shrewdest exploitation of the Monte Carlo concept. If most personal luxury cars seem to be a compromise hiding underneath swoopy moldings, the Cordoba is the best, because its com­promise between sedan and luxury car is so readily understood.