Pagani – Supercar Shangri-la

The business of making cars, Pagani supercars or boggo hatchbacks alike, is a tricky one to break into, unless, of course, you’ve got the backing of a massive parent group. Just ask Preston Tucker, though you might want to ignore some of his, shall we say, creative money-making schemes. Tucker’s story is the perfect example of what happens when you try to take on the automotive giants. Spoiler: it doesn’t end with a Ferrari in the driveway and a fat wallet.

Supercars are no different, but the barrier to entry is even higher, so it’s no surprise that history is littered with obscure hypercars that never made it past the front door. Cars that promised the world, but ended up being nothing more than an automotive footnote. It’s like managing to talk your way onto the main stage at Glastonbury after Muse… and then attempting to woo the crowd with a slightly off-key rendition of Three Blind Mice.

Zenvo tried it with the ZT-1, Gumpert had a go with the Apollo, and Vector – well, they went full throttle with the absolutely outrageous, shoulder-pad-wearing, jet fighter-inspired W8 back in the ‘80s. While it wasn’t always the car’s fault, even some of the bigger players occasionally hit the net in automotive tennis. It just goes to show how tough it is to truly succeed in the world of supercars.

The upside of starting a new brand, though? No expectations, no existing parameters, and – most importantly – no rules or conventions to follow. With the right ingredients, this can be the perfect recipe for creating something truly spectacular.

Back in the days of old, if you wanted a supercar purely to get noticed, your options were pretty much Ferrari or Lamborghini. And let’s be honest, many would argue the latter has always been the ultimate poster car for your bedroom wall. Lambos have always offered something a little… different. They look like they were designed by a group of five-year-olds who’d just been handed a bucket of sweets and one too many double-strength Ribenas. We’re talking preposterously oversized rear wings that could give an Avro Vulcan a run for its money in terms of surface area, and exhaust notes that could make even the most buttoned-up, stiff-upper-lip types crack a smile. They didn’t exactly rival other supercars head-to-head; in fact, they never really tried. And that’s exactly the point. They were cars for people who would dream of them, whether they were 6 years old or 66.

In recent years, the Audi influence has shifted the tone of Lamborghini into something a bit more… serious. The wild, untamed lunacy we once knew – Sesto Elemento aside – has been dialled down, which is a bit sad, but we can’t blame them. The ’80s and ’90s were the heyday of boundary-pushing, hedonistic supercars – many of which are still revered today. But now we live in a world where aerodynamics, lap times, and downforce reign supreme, and it’s only natural that most modern supercars have adopted this status quo.

But there’s one company that’s always done things a little differently. From the moment it burst onto the scene in 1999, Pagani has marched to the beat of its own V12, and that has never changed, and the rather ironic fact here, is that we have Lamborghini to thank for it.

Back in 1983, Lamborghini hired a penniless but exceptionally clever young errand boy to sweep the floors and, presumably, keep the wine glasses of the Lamborghini brass topped up. But it quickly became abundantly clear that this kid was destined for much greater things. His name? Horacio Pagani.

By 1987, he was Lamborghini’s chief engineer. Now, that’s what you call career progression! Under his guidance, an entirely composite construction version of the Countach, known as the Evoluzione, was created. He even implored Lamborghini to invest in an autoclave – a large pressure cooker of sorts used to ‘bake’ carbon fiber parts – to continue developing this concept with the aim of bringing something revolutionary to production. But because Ferrari wasn’t using composite materials, Lamborghini wasn’t interested in jumping on the bandwagon, like Decca Records passing on the opportunity to sign The Beatles in 1962, we believe this is what’s known as a miscalculation.

Horacio, cross, but undeterred, marched down to the bank, secured a loan, bought his own autoclave, and launched Modena Design, which would eventually become Pagani Automobili. By 1992, he had penned the design for his very own car. And the rest, as they say, is history – fuelled by carbon fibre, passion, and a healthy dose of defiance.

Originally intended to be called the Fangio F1, after the legendary Juan Manuel Fangio – who Horacio credits with giving him his big break – the car was tragically renamed the Zonda after Fangio’s death in 1995. It was released to the world in 1999. By the logic of new supercar launches, it should have tripped at the first hurdle and ended up on some obscure list of “cars nobody remembers.” But it didn’t. Despite some initial scepticism, people quickly realized that this wasn’t your average, run-of-the-mill supercar. This was something very different.

Today, Pagani has rightfully earned its seat at the big table. Hearing that name mentioned alongside Ferrari, Lamborghini, and Bugatti sounds perfectly normal in 2024. But the real question is: how did they manage to succeed where so many others have failed?

As the new millennium approached, the focus of supercars was increasingly shaped by Formula 1 technological breakthroughs, with a growing emphasis on aerodynamics and outright speed – often at the expense of, well, beauty. While these factors were certainly important to Horacio, he believed that performance and design should work in harmony, not in competition. The Zonda wasn’t trying to be the fastest, the most aerodynamic, or the quickest around the Nürburgring. No, it was a flawless execution of blending art and science. And according to Horacio, this philosophy can be traced back to the influence of one very special individual: Leonardo da Vinci.

Although the simply glorious Mercedes-AMG-sourced 6.0 V12 in the Zonda C12 was, in itself, a work of art, it was the sheer attention to detail and emphasis on exclusivity that made it an overnight star. So many new supercars – including some major names – can feel like a parts-bin festival of disappointment. Not the case here.

The interior combined cutting-edge technology, TVR-esque lunacy, and effortlessly cool, crisp Italian style, all in one place, while somehow managing to look completely cohesive and correct in every way. The exquisitely designed pedal box, all machined from beautiful aluminium with exposed springs and linkages, is worth the price of admission on its own. But there’s so much more. The belt buckle on the glovebox, contrasting with the Foglizzo leather, is the very definition of Italian class. And that dash binnacle, with its toggle switches on the centre console, looks like something straight out of 1950s aviation. It’s a masterclass in style, and a staggering 25 years later, it still looks like it’s from tomorrow.

On the outside, it’s pure theatre. The front end manages to be dramatic without ever overdoing it. It’s a clean design with no unnecessary fluff, yet what is there really does all the talking. Looking at it head-on, you’re struck by a shape that not only looks beautiful, but imposing, almost telepathically demanding complete respect.

The XP3’s McLaren F1-inspired, high-mounted wing mirrors might seem out of place on just about anything else, but on the Zonda? Nope. In fact, there’s not a single angle from which it doesn’t exude sheer perfection. And then there’s that now-iconic cluster of circular exhausts, perfectly positioned in the centre of the rear grille. It’s a bold, almost rebellious design choice – one that channels the wild, untamed spirit of some of the most daring supercars ever made. Yet, somehow, it manages to look impossibly purposeful, as if every curve, every detail, was crafted to send a message: this is a car that doesn’t just perform; it commands attention. And damn, does it ever. It has the visual drama of the supercars of old, yet somehow isn’t trying too hard. And that’s where Pagani absolutely nailed it.

And it wasn’t just the legendary Zonda, either. Take the Huayra, for example. Every nut and bolt is crafted from grade 7 titanium, and each one is etched with the Pagani logo. At the time, you could buy a Porsche 911 with your hard-earned money, or, alternatively, you could buy just the nuts and bolts for a Pagani. The attention to detail is the cornerstone of the Pagani philosophy, and we get the impression Horacio would sooner lose a few quid from his back pocket than release a car to the public that doesn’t meet his obsessive standards of quality, style, and craftsmanship.

And then there’s the Utopia. Just look at that exposed gear shifter. Name us one that’s more exquisitely crafted. We’ll wait.

It’s very possible to get this recipe wrong. Lexus, for instance, had a similarly obsessive approach with the LFA. And while it might be one of the most glorious-sounding machines in the known universe, it never quite looked special enough to justify the eye-watering price tag it carried. They created an incredible driving machine, no doubt, but it didn’t deliver on the ambience, and that’s where Pagani really nailed it, managing to check every box in one fell swoop.

All Pagani models since 1999 have been technically brilliant, and you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone worth their salt who disagrees. But what truly sets them apart is their pathological obsession with style and creating a sense of occasion. They don’t just care about performance; they care about how the lucky person behind the wheel feels. It’s not just a profit-spinner, it’s a bespoke experience.

This attitude is also reflected in Horacio’s approach to customers. Take the swivel-eyed Huayra BC, for instance. The initials pay tribute to Pagani’s very first customer, Benny Caiola. That’s quite the homage. Above the entrance to the factory, there’s a plaque that reads, “Il cliente è il nostro vero datore di lavoro” – “The client is our true boss”.

And that’s how the new kid on the block managed to do what so many others failed to achieve. With a Pagani, you’re not buying a supercar as an alternative to a Ferrari or anything else – you’re buying it in addition, because it’s just such a wonderful thing. It’s a love letter to internal combustion. If you’d publicly said in the early 1990s that by the end of the century a new Italian supercar manufacturer would emerge, building cars that would make Ferrari and Lamborghini look like Austin Ambassadors, you’d have likely been escorted to a facility in a straightjacket. Today, however, if you fail to mention Pagani in the same breath, the outcome would no doubt be the similar.