All Will Drive
Giving cars a bad name
Printer-Friendly VersionI got a text message from Universal Motors Corporation lady boss Beth Lee the other day, inviting me to the launch of the new Patrol scheduled on July 7. It struck me that UMC is now calling the popular SUV "Patrol Royale," and I'm still undecided whether I like this name or not. However, I do feel that "Royale" doesn't seem to fit a hulking SUV. I'm sure UMC is merely trying to give the vehicle a regal aura, but I find the name rather pretentious.
Of course the Nissan distributor had to make it French-sounding, perhaps to convince buyers that what they're forking out serious money for is as ritzy as famous French brands like Lacoste, Louis Vuitton and Dom Pérignon. Apart from that, I can't think of any other reason for the pompous sobriquet because--as I already mentioned--I'm having a hard time associating "Royale" with a vehicle meant to aid congressmen in terrorizing their constituents on the road.
Actually, when I hear "Royale," the first thing that comes to mind is a fat, juicy burger. (In fact, I'm now thinking of a burger so earnestly that I'm seriously going down to McDonald's right after this very paragraph.) Blame that Pulp Fiction scene in which John Travolta explains to Samuel L. Jackson that the Quarter Pounder is called "Royale with Cheese" in Paris. (Okay, I'll be back in 20 minutes.)
I'm back. You see, there's a sound reason the French named their Quarter Pounder "Royale." It's because--as Travolta pointed out--they use the metric system in France, making it difficult for Parisians to understand the significance of "pounder." On the other hand, UMC calling the new Patrol "Royale" is nothing more than gussying up the SUV model name, like what Toyota did with the Corolla, adding "Altis" to the already strong moniker.
Which makes me think: Carmakers must really agonize over the names they give their vehicles. Naming cars is a lot more difficult than naming babies. That's because a car's name has significant impact on its market success. You give your kids a horrible name and the worst that could happen is that they'd be mocked at school. Okay, sure, maybe they'll be psychologically scarred, too, but they can always come up with a cool-sounding alternative when they grow up. That's what Motor Image Pilipinas marketing manager Ariel de Jesus did when he realized the girls didn’t dig "Arnaldo."
But give a car an awful name and you'll seriously harm its market potential. I don't think you'd want to buy a pickup truck named Wingle (which is what Great Wall named its pickup). Imagine telling a date: "Hey, I'll pick you up in a Wingle." Or worse, imagine being in a jam-packed bar and being shown this signboard by the waiter: "Owner of a silver Wingle, please move your pickup." I dare you to leave your table and head for the door.
And since car names are crucial to commercial success, automotive companies lose sleep trying to concoct model names that are universally acceptable no matter which part of the globe the cars are sold in. Because different markets have different languages, this is not always easy. A good car name in our market may have a foul meaning in Japan or China. I believe that had Mazda sold the smallish Laputa here, it would have done so under a different name. That explains why Honda's subcompact hatchback, for instance, is called "Jazz" here and "Fit" elsewhere. Speaking of Honda, the Japanese company has a penchant for giving its domestic-market cars weird names. It actually used to have cars named "That's" and "Life Dunk."
When I drove the Forte Koup--called the Cerato Koup in other markets--in South Korea last year, I was told by Chut Velasquez of Columbian Autocar Corporation that they didn't want to use the "Cerato" name in the Philippines because it sounded a lot like "sira ito" ("this is broken"). Isuzu Philippines Corporation, meanwhile, even held a company-wide contest for the "Crosswind" name, which is unique to our market. At the time, I found the name too FM radio-ish, but since the vehicle has sold well, maybe the name choice was brilliant after all.
It's not a coincidence that the most iconic automobiles in history have the coolest names ever: Mustang, Diablo, Viper, Corvette, Quattroporte, Scirocco, Testarossa, Celica, Galant. It's not a coincidence either that some of the least or barely successful cars have the worst names anyone could think of: AMC's Gremlin, Ford's Aspire, Oldsmobile's Intrigue, Buick's LaCrosse (which apparently is French slang for "masturbation").
This business of naming cars is not easy. It's so hard that some carmakers regularly get it wrong. Volkswagen, for one, has three vehicles named Routan, Tiguan and Touareg. You'd think the German company names its cars by asking passersby on the street: "Hey, you! The guy in the hooded red jacket! What's a nice name for a sedan?" "Uh, I don't know, dude...Passat?"
Naming cars is so hard that many carmakers--particularly assemblers of high-end vehicles--skip the process entirely by distinguishing vehicle models using alphanumeric designation. Audi has the A3, A4, A5, A6, A8, Q5, Q7, R8, and TT. BMW has the 1-, 3-, 5-, 6-, and 7-Series. Jaguar has the XF, XJ, and XK. Lexus has the ES, GS, GX, IS, LS, LX, and RX. Mercedes-Benz has the A-, B-, C-, CL-, CLS-, E-, G-, GL-, M-, R-, S-, SL-, and SLK-Class. Volvo has the C30, C70, S40, S60, S80, V50, V70, XC60, and XC90. This system of naming cars is very clinical and boring, but at least the car companies never need to torture themselves over the fabrication of hit-or-miss car names.
Anyway, if you don't like how your car is called, you can always just remove the badge, you know. That's what I would do if I owned a Chrysler Pacifica. It's superficial, I know, but I just can't read that name without attaching "Falayfay" to it. Sorry, big Dolphy fan here.
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