Small Cadillacs
Cadillac, a manufacturer of mostly unnecessarily huge and unnecessarily pompous land tankers for people aged 75 to 285, mobsters, pimps and other rather dubious individuals such as the DeVille, Fleetwood, Escalade, XTS. However, Cadillac also tried to make somewhat more modest cars for young people. However, it did not always succeed.
Background[edit | edit source]
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Cadillac’s first attempt to court a more sensible, less rhinestone-encrusted audience came in 1965 with the Calais—a stripped-down DeVille that removed virtually everything people associated with Cadillac: flash, comfort, and presence. It was a Cadillac only in name, built for the mythical buyer who wanted all the size and none of the charm. Unsurprisingly, that buyer did not exist.
What followed were decades of similarly miscalculated experiments. The Seville, the Cimmaron, and few others. All of them were unforgetable in their own way.
Seville[edit | edit source]
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First generation (Mid 1975-1979)[1][edit | edit source]
Launched during Cadillac’s existential crisis—when imported luxury sedans began eroding its long-held dominance—the first-generation Seville was billed as a bold new direction: a compact, modern Cadillac for the youthful, upwardly mobile elite. In reality, it was a stunningly cynical repackaging exercise, cloaked in formalwear and drenched in chrome.
What Cadillac called the “all-new K-platform[2]” was, in truth, an expensive sleight of hand—a Frankenstein’s monster stitched together from GM’s budget-bin X-body (Chevrolet Nova) and the equally uninspired A-body (Chevrolet Malibu), with a few luxury trimmings hastily glued on. It was a masterclass in corporate audacity: take the cheapest foundations GM had to offer, rebrand it with colonial-sounding European aspirations, and charge nearly $13,000 for it—equivalent to the price of a house in 1975, or around $72,000 today.
Designers slapped a squared-off body on it that vaguely resembled a Rolls-Royce after a traumatic head injury, hoping the target audience wouldn’t notice. They didn’t. Because the target audience wasn’t “young professionals” at all—it was primarily the very, very elderly. Think 125 to 214 years old, on average. These were buyers who appreciated the car’s compact size not for urban agility, but for navigating the tight lanes of retirement village parking lots without striking their own tombstones.
Despite the car's confused identity—luxury aspirations wrapped around compact-car DNA—sales were robust. Cadillac proved that with sufficient chrome, self-confidence, and advertising, one could sell a Chevy Nova to people with one foot in the grave and the other on a velour carpet.
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Second Generation (1980–1985)[3][edit | edit source]
By 1980, Cadillac had fully embraced the idea that heritage could be weaponized. The second-generation Seville traded any pretense of innovation for baroque cosplay: front-wheel drive (admittedly ahead of its time), paired with a bizarre “bustleback” rear end that looked like someone reversed a car into a coffin and decided to keep driving.
The styling, allegedly meant to evoke the grace of 1930s coachbuilt saloons, instead resembled an automotive hallucination—something a funeral director might dream after a heavy dose of morphine. Cadillac continued pretending the car was designed for “the young luxury buyer,” but again, the only youth involved were great-grandchildren helping their elders into the driver's seat. Average owner age: 143 to 227, with at least three rumored to have witnessed the invention of the wheel.
Under the hood, things only got more tragic. The infamous V8-6-4 cylinder deactivation system operated with the precision of a drunken puppet show, while the available Oldsmobile diesel V8 belched out despair and torque in equally inadequate measure. For added misery, buyers could also opt for the HT4100—a lightweight aluminum V8 that achieved the rare feat of being both underpowered and spectacularly unreliable.
The car’s performance figures were so lethargic that reviewers joked it was measured not in horsepower, but in hospice units. Still, Seville buyers didn’t care—zero to sixty wasn’t relevant when you were mostly driving from the bingo hall to your pharmacist.
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Third Generation (1986–1991)[edit | edit source]
In the late '80s, Cadillac discovered aerodynamics. The third-generation Seville appeared sleeker, smoother, and ever-so-slightly less like a rolling mausoleum. It was a conscious attempt to compete with Japanese and European rivals. Unfortunately, the result was so generically bland that it was routinely mistaken for a Toyota Cressida or a Buick that had just woken from a coma.
Cadillac had finally built a car that looked modern—but forgot to make it feel modern. Beneath the soft curves was the same quiet, lifeless ride that appealed primarily to people who had no intention of ever going above 45 mph again. The goal was to reach 35- to 50-year-old professionals; instead, the customer base shifted even further into the fossil record—averaging somewhere between 151 and 233 years old.
Driving one felt like sitting in a heavily sedated leather sofa with a vague sense of direction. It was quiet, comfortable, and utterly devoid of personality. If it had a voice, it would ask, “Where would you like to be buried?”
Sales were decent, largely because old money likes consistency. But Seville had become the default car for people whose last thrill ride was the Korean War.
Fourth Generation (1992–1997)[edit | edit source]
This was Cadillac’s "We’re Serious Now" moment. The fourth-generation Seville arrived on a new platform with an aluminum 4.6-liter Northstar V8, packed with techy features like variable valve timing, a high-revving redline, and marketing copy that screamed “Eurofighter Jet on Wheels.”
The reality? It was an over-engineered nightmare with the reliability of a mayfly on fire. Head gasket failures were not a possibility but a rite of passage. Oil consumption was measured in gallons per hour. The Northstar name quickly became shorthand among mechanics for “catastrophic failure incoming.”
Design-wise, it finally looked like it belonged in Europe… if you parked it next to a Fiat Croma or Peugeot 605 on a foggy night. Cadillac wanted global relevance; it got global indifference. The Seville's attempts at athleticism were undercut by steering with the feedback of a wet napkin and suspension tuned for the smoothest possible glide into the afterlife.
The intended audience was again the mythical “aspirational luxury professional.” Actual buyers? Somewhere in the 163–247 age range. By now, Seville ownership had become less of a lifestyle and more of an extended-care plan.
Fifth Generation (1998–2004)[edit | edit source]
The final Seville emerged with its chin up and magnetic ride dampers beneath its belt. This was the most technologically advanced, best-handling, and most powerful Seville ever. It even got a badge upgrade: the high-spec version was now called the STS (Seville Touring Sedan), suggesting it might actually move with some urgency.
And yet… it didn’t matter. The styling was a marginal evolution of the previous model—recognizable only by forensic automotive pathologists. The updated Northstar engine still carried the sins of its past, and the ride—though more composed—continued to whisper, “You’re not going anywhere fast, but you’ll be very, very comfortable getting there.”
Cadillac continued the charade of marketing to younger professionals, but most of them were too busy leasing BMWs or Audis to even notice. Instead, the Seville remained popular with a clientele old enough to remember the sinking of the Titanic—not as a historical event, but as breaking news. Median age of buyers: 179 to 289 years.
The Seville quietly expired in 2004. There was no public mourning, no final tribute, and no retrospective documentaries. Its legacy was clear: a half-century-long experiment in rebranding grandma’s armchair as a luxury sports sedan.
Cimarron[4][edit | edit source]
By the early 1980s, Cadillac realized its grand plan to attract younger buyers with the Seville had backfired spectacularly—if anything, it had appealed to an even older demographic than the company’s traditional full-size sedans. Seville owners often appreciated the easier parking at retirement homes and funerals. So Cadillac tried again. This time, they aimed lower. Much lower. The result was the Cimarron: a car that was supposed to bring in a new generation of luxury buyers, but ended up as an unintentional satire of the very idea.
Built not in Cadillac’s historic Detroit plants, but in the same factories that churned out budget J-bodies in Wisconsin and California, the Cimarron was a Cavalier[5] in formalwear—and the tuxedo didn’t fit. Based on the Opel Ascona C, a car that at least had the dignity of being designed by adults, the Cimarron arrived stateside mutilated by badge-engineering and delusions of grandeur. For nearly double the price of its Chevrolet sibling, you got the same economy car bones, plus a few fake wood panels, an analog clock, and a Cadillac badge large enough to trigger identity fraud.
At launch, it featured a wheezing 1.8-liter engine and a manual transmission, which Cadillac optimistically thought might appeal to driving enthusiasts. The problem? Cadillac didn’t have driving enthusiasts. It had owners, typically aged 89 to 105, for whom shifting gears felt like a stroke risk.
It didn’t bring in new blood. It didn’t even bring in old blood. The only people who bought it were confused retirees who thought it looked nice and didn’t notice the Cavalier next to it for half the price[6]. The press hated it. The market laughed. Cadillac pretended it didn’t happen.
By the time it was euthanized in 1988, Cimarron had managed only one real success: becoming the most widely cited cautionary tale in automotive history.
Others[edit | edit source]
Cadillac’s journey through the late 20th and early 21st century resembled less a brand renaissance and more a prolonged nervous breakdown. After Cimarron, the company remained obsessed with attracting younger buyers, though seemingly unclear on what younger buyers actually wanted. The result was a series of catastrophes wearing chrome grilles and existential dread.
Allanté[edit | edit source]
The Allanté was supposed to be Cadillac’s answer to the Mercedes SL—a luxury convertible that combined European flair with American power. What it delivered was a $60,000 front-wheel-drive barge with all the athleticism of Michael Moore. The manufacturing process was legendary for all the wrong reasons: Pininfarina-built bodies were flown from Italy to Michigan in custom Boeing 747s in what can only be described as the world’s most expensive cargo cult. Performance was underwhelming, reliability worse, and the target market—young, affluent drivers—mostly stuck with their German roadsters, or bought a Miata and kept the change.
Catera[edit | edit source]
Another attempt to woo the elusive youth, it was actually a rebadged Opel Omega built in Germany—where engineers knew what they were doing. As an Opel, it was entirely decent. As a Cadillac, it was pure déjà vu: Cimarron in a trench coat. Americans didn’t want a mid-size European sedan with a duck in the ad campaign (“The Caddy that Zigs”), especially not one with build quality more Fiat than Ferrari. Most buyers were simply retired Seville owners who’d wandered into the wrong showroom.
BLS[edit | edit source]
And just when Cadillac seemed done humiliating itself, along came the BLS—a reworked Saab 9-3. In Sweden, the BLS was a competent, if unremarkable, car. As a Cadillac, it was ignored entirely by the American market, who had no idea what it was, where it came from, or why it existed. Turns out, slapping a Cadillac badge on a Scandinavian family car didn’t magically make it desirable—unless your target demographic was confused Volvo owners.
But here’s the kicker: the plan technically worked. These monstrosities, flops though they were, did succeed in lowering Cadillac’s average buyer age—from a fossilized 154 years down to a still-ancient, but comparatively sprightly, 92. Mission accomplished?
New ones[edit | edit source]
Today, against all odds—and after decades of strategic self-harm—Cadillac has managed to do the unthinkable: become relevant again. After the long, slow implosion of rear-wheel-drive American full-size sedans (a tradition GM ceremonially buried in 1996), Cadillac found itself at a crossroads. With nothing but front-wheel-drive dinosaurs like the DeVille (favored by buyers averaging 176 years of age) and an Escalade—a massive SUV bought mostly by well-funded centenarians with a taste for chrome and orthopedic ride height—Cadillac needed a miracle. Or, at the very least, a new direction.
That direction came post-Catera—after GM finally realized that rebadging German fleet sedans wasn’t a marketing strategy, it was a cry for help. So Cadillac went all-in on building cars that didn’t just wear the badge, but actually earned it. The result was a shockingly competent lineup of rear-wheel-drive sedans that looked nothing like Cadillacs of old, and drove like something that might actually make a BMW driver raise an eyebrow.
It started with the CTS—Catera Touring Sedan in name only. Here was a sharp, muscular, crisply styled sport sedan that had more in common with a European performance car than a Miami retirement home. Cadillac even dusted off the once-proud Seville name—sort of—reviving it as the STS, followed by the compact ATS, and later the CT4 and CT5. These weren’t just good for Cadillacs. They were just good—full stop.
And then came the V-series: Cadillac’s feral, V8-powered muscle car division wearing tailored suits. The CTS-V, ATS-V, CT5-V Blackwing… these were brutal, beautiful machines that tore up racetracks and shattered stereotypes. Elderly Cadillac loyalists who wandered into showrooms expecting tufted velour and front bench seats instead encountered supercharged monsters with manual transmissions and track-ready suspensions. Many of them didn’t survive the shock. Literally.
But it worked. Cadillac, the brand that once couldn’t give away a European rebadge with a duck mascot, now had a credible performance pedigree. And with it, the average buyer age dropped from a necromantic 176 to a relatively youthful 59. For Cadillac, that’s basically Gen Z anyway.......
See also[edit | edit source]
References[edit | edit source]
- ↑ Actually a good car. Looks good, powered by 5.7-liter (350 CUI) Oldsmobile V8 engine with something called Electronic Fuel Injection with a power output of 180 horsepower, which is actually the same power as 7-liter (425 CUI) Cadillac V8. Whatever that is. Also available with quite less attractive 5.7-liter Oldsmobile Diesel V8.
- ↑ Fun fact: GM originally wanted to go to Germany, steal an Opel Diplomat from Opel engineers in Rüsselsheim, and modify it to suit their needs. Why not? The Diplomat was a solid, well-built car, but GM's CEO thought a new body would cost too much money.
- ↑ Weird one
- ↑ Oops! This car deserves an article all by itself.
- ↑ Chevrolet Cavalier - American version of Opel Ascona, also something like Chrysler's K-Car
- ↑ That car cost an equivalent of 40 grand today, Cavalier something about 24,000$
