Four-Wheel-Drive Fantasies

A defense of the SUV

Hans Eisenbeis from the July 2002 issue

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The rest is military history: The Jeep performed beautifully during World War II, and its presence was felt on every continent. By V-Day in June 1946, more than 300,000 Jeeps had been built, mostly by Ford and Willys. Although the U.S. government asked both companies midway through the war to remove their logos from the production vehicles, Willys officials quietly and presciently had the term Jeep trademarked. They seemed to intuit the value of the vehicle during peacetime, and they were already positioning themselves for whatever civilian market there might be for the beloved vehicles.

A Chicken in Every Pot, a Jeep in Every Driveway

Throughout the war, the Jeep came to be considered the automotive companion of the serviceman. Military men saw the Jeep, more than any other vehicle, as an everyday helpmeet. The automotive culture that had flowered in the 1920s, when cars first became aesthetic extensions of young men and women, migrated naturally to the military. Cars already had assumed a role at the center of the American and English identity. It was only fitting that the military's equivalent of the utility passenger vehicle would become an icon not only of Allied military strength but of Western values. In fact, the Jeep was so ubiquitous around the globe that the locals, especially in Europe, fell in love with it. While Europe rebuilt, Jeeps were useful literally and figuratively, and many civilians bought up decommissioned vehicles for personal use.

The history of the SUV proper doesn't really begin until World War II ends. During the postwar expansion of the American economy, Willys exercised its trademark and became the sole owner of the Jeep name. It also was the only company willing to continue building the vehicle. By 1949, Willys began to expand its model lines to include a four-wheel-drive station wagon that combined the comforts of a family car with the stripped-down utility of a commercial truck. This "woody," so called because of its distinctive wooden side panels, was effectively the first SUV.

The market for such a vehicle was limited mostly to farmers, ranchers, and sportsmen. Throughout the 1950s and '60s, Americans were enjoying the golden age of the behemoth land yacht -- the age of the Cadillac Sedan DeVille and the Lincoln Town Car -- that signaled a different sense of self than the SUV. While there were small pockets of off-roading enthusiasts, the mentality and culture of the SUV would remain on the fringe for 20 years. In fact, through the 1970s, and especially in the midst of the first and second OPEC energy crises, the trend was decidedly in the direction of smaller, more efficient cars. By the time Jimmy Carter took office in 1976, the Volkswagen Beetle had become the best-selling automobile on the planet.

Yet almost as soon as Ronald Reagan became president, American automakers suddenly and inexplicably turned their backs on the "small is beautiful" aesthetic. Once again, land yachts became the order of the day. But this time they weren't DeVilles and Town Cars; they were Grand Cherokees and Suburbans, Broncos and Troopers. The sudden convergence of cheap steel with plummeting oil prices set the automotive industry back 30 years in terms of fuel economy. The recent recession notwithstanding, we have been in the midst of an SUV explosion ;for almost 20 years. And even in the dawning days of the 21st century, with our whole world turned upside down, the SUV is the most popular vehicle in the nation. Perhaps it's precisely because our whole world has been turned upside down. Zero percent financing certainly doesn't hurt.

Extreme times accentuate our faith -- and our foibles. The SUV, with its origins in war and its maturation in peace, is a powerful synecdoche. The artifice of these cars -- the rugged look, the impression of self-reliance and security they give -- is complimented by real brawn under the hood and on the chassis.

Back in Disney World, I am reminded how important fantasy really is. And how, when the details all fall together, the line between fake and real is not only negligible but ultimately irrelevant. If at this point in history there is anything more American than Mickey, Donald, and Minnie, then surely it's Mickey, Donald, and Minnie in an SUV. As if to avoid the appearance of favoritism or brand nationalism, they ride in the triumvirate of authoritative, historical SUVs: the American Jeep and its direct postwar descendants, Britain's Land Rover and Japan's Toyota Land Cruiser. Still, beneath the confetti paint job, the spit-shined hubcaps, and the bootblack tires, those are some serious off-roading vehicles. The children and the adults are impressed, each in their own way.