Broken Dreams: The Crossed Destinies of the Bricklin SV-1 and the DeLorean DMC-12
There exists in automotive history a handful of stories so similar they seem written by the same cursed screenwriter. Two coupes with gullwing doors. Two flamboyant entrepreneurs. Two revolutionary promises. Two spectacular bankruptcies. The Bricklin SV-1 and the DeLorean DMC-12 didn't just share the same door design: they shared the same fate, seven years apart. A coincidence? Not even close. An American obsession with the automotive dream, pushed to excess.
Malcolm Bricklin: the brilliant huckster
It all begins with Malcolm Bricklin, born March 9, 1939 in Philadelphia into a modest family. The man is not an engineer, not a designer, not even passionate about automobiles in the technical sense. What he is, is a supreme salesman, endowed with a nerve and gift of the gab that would make a Las Vegas showman pale. At nineteen, he takes over his father's hardware store in Florida and transforms it into a franchise chain called Handyman America. Profitable for him, disastrous for his franchisees who find themselves cheated. Bricklin pockets the startup fees, methodically orchestrates his insolvency, and disappears a millionaire before lawsuits catch up. He's not yet thirty.
What follows looks like a series of wild bets that almost work out. In 1968, he founds Subaru of America and imports the Subaru 360, a microcar weighing less than 400 kilos. Consumer Reports immediately names it "the most dangerous car in America." No matter: Bricklin moves his 10,000 units with spectacular promotions in supermarket parking lots, takes Subaru public, then sells his stake back to the Japanese parent company at a handsome profit. He's in the Los Angeles jet-set, friends with Hugh Hefner, a regular at Playboy parties. And he has a new vision.
The designation SV-1 means "Safety Vehicle One" — a truly safe sports car, with integrated safety structure and energy-absorbing bumpers, at a time when few manufacturers ranked safety on par with performance. Designer Marshall Hobart sketches modern lines and those famous gullwing doors that Bricklin is madly in love with. The stated target: nothing less than the Chevrolet Corvette. A revealing anecdote: the SV-1 had neither ashtray nor cigarette lighter, because Bricklin considered smoking while driving to be dangerous. The character is consistent, at least.
Lacking private investors, he turns to Canada and the province of New Brunswick. During an election period, Prime Minister Richard Hatfield sees an opportunity to fight unemployment. The province advances 4.5 million dollars and guarantees 12 million in loans — for 67% of the capital. The SV-1 arrives in 1974. Bricklin had promised a price of 4,000 dollars. At launch, it's 7,490 dollars. The following year, 9,980 dollars — more expensive than the Corvette. Problems pile up: bodies warped by heat, doors too heavy, headlights failing, interior leaking water. The motorized door opening takes eight seconds. After only 2,854 units assembled, Bricklin enters liquidation. Canadian taxpayers lost approximately 23 million dollars.
But Bricklin always bounces back. He subsequently imports Fiat X1/9 and 124 to the United States (1982), then the Yugoslav Yugo (1985) — a car that becomes the laughingstock of all America but of which he sells 163,000 units in three years before selling his stake for 20 million dollars. In 2004, he attempts to import Chinese Chery cars to the United States, raises 200 million dollars with George Soros' help, and gets outmaneuvered by Chery itself, which signs behind his back with Chrysler. Lawsuits, international arbitration, confidential settlements. In 2017, at 78 years old, he announces wanting to transform high-end auto dealerships into art galleries. The New York Times once described him as "the automotive version of P.T. Barnum". That's exactly right.
John DeLorean: the golden boy caught by reality
The other man in this story is of an entirely different caliber. John Zachary DeLorean was born January 6, 1925 in Detroit, son of a Romanian immigrant worker in a Ford foundry. Where Bricklin is a salesman, DeLorean is an engineering genius coupled with an irresistible charmer. He climbs the ranks of General Motors at stunning speed: General Manager of Pontiac at 40, Chevrolet at 44, Vice President of the group at 47. He's the one who invents in 1964 the Pontiac GTO — the birth of the American muscle car — by sliding a 6.4-liter V8 into the body of a family sedan. In the conservative world of gray suits in Detroit, DeLorean arrives with shirts unbuttoned to his belly button, well-stocked sideburns, dyed hair, and a model wife. Total anomaly. And a potential future president of GM, according to rumors.
In 1973, he slams the door and founds the DeLorean Motor Company. His project: a futuristic GT with stainless steel bodywork, designed by the legendary Giorgetto Giugiaro, with gullwing doors as visual signature. Designed by the Italian, assembled in Northern Ireland in the Dunmurry factory near Belfast, powered by a Franco-Swedish V6, based on a chassis conceived by Lotus: the DMC-12 is a purely European object bearing an American name.
Ironically: during the gestation of the SV-1, a certain John DeLorean is spotted in Bricklin's corridors taking notes and photographs. The man apparently drew lessons from this visit — but not necessarily the right ones.
Stainless butterflies, soft steel performance
The first prototype is created in 1976 and production begins on January 21, 1981. The DMC-12 is a fascinating object: the stainless steel bodywork gives it a "space-age" look very much in vogue in the 1980s, but this originality comes at a cost — panels tolerate no impacts or dents, as touch-ups are nearly impossible.
Under the rear hood, reality is less thrilling. The 2,851 cc PRV V6 develops only 130 hp. 100 km/h is reached in approximately 10 seconds according to independent tests — official figures were more optimistic. For a GT supposed to excite America, it's a bit lacking. The DeLorean suffers from the same syndrome as the Bricklin: a promise of sportiness not delivered by the mechanics. The intended price was 12,000 dollars. At launch, it reaches 25,000 dollars.
On October 19, 1982, John DeLorean is arrested at a Los Angeles hotel during a DEA operation. Agents trapped him with a briefcase containing 25 kg of pure cocaine, filming his reaction. The company is declared bankrupt the same day. It takes until August 16, 1984 for the jury to render its verdict: acquitted on grounds of entrapment — federal agents had illegally manipulated him, via an FBI informant who was a former neighbor of DeLorean himself. Justice served, but too late.
After his acquittal, his third wife, model Cristina Ferrare, files for divorce. His vast 500-acre estate in New Jersey is purchased by a certain Donald Trump, who turns it into a golf club. The following years are a long decline: investor lawsuits, fraud accusations, personal bankruptcy declared in 1999. DeLorean attempts to relaunch his brand under the name DMC2, even produces a watch called "DeLorean Time" playing on the aura of Back to the Future. He dies on March 19, 2005 from a stroke, at 80 years old, in a one-room apartment in Bedminster. On his tombstone at White Chapel Cemetery in Troy, Michigan: a DMC-12 with doors raised.
Doc Brown wouldn't have driven a Mustang
What Bricklin didn't have, DeLorean obtained by accident: cinematic immortality. In 1985, Robert Zemeckis transforms the DMC-12 into a time machine for Back to the Future, and the car becomes a worldwide icon. This choice might never have happened: Ford had offered 75,000 dollars for the machine to be a Mustang. The film's co-creator Bob Gale declined without hesitation: "Doc Brown doesn't drive a fucking Mustang!"
After the first film's success, Zemeckis received thanks from DeLorean for having "perpetuated his dream." Today, the entire stock of original parts is managed by the DeLorean Motor Company of Texas, founded in 1997. The legend continues — without its creator.
The SV-1 remained confidential. Approximately 1,500 units are believed to still exist. If it doesn't have the aura of the DMC-12 despite a similar history, it's because it didn't find its Zemeckis. And also because its creator was more P.T. Barnum than James Dean.
Two ghosts, one myth
Yet both machines embody something profoundly moving: the absolute conviction that one man alone can change the course of automobiles. Both were wrong about almost everything — costs, reliability, performance, market. But they were right about the essential: those doors that open to the sky, that's unforgettable.
These two gullwing door legends have brochures and collector documents still circulating among enthusiasts. Find the Bricklin SV-1 brochure and documents for the DeLorean DMC-12 in our catalog — because automotive history is also read in glossy paper.
