Opinion: why the Mitsubishi 3000GT finally deserves some respect

Built right through the ‘90s and across three generations, the Mitsubishi 3000GT (or GTO as it’s known in Japan) is a car which never really commanded the same level of respect as its in-period rivals, such as the A80 Toyota Supra or the R33 Nissan Skyline. This is despite its competitive performance, heightened by features such as active aero, four-wheel steering, and pop-up headlights (+100bhp).

In its most visceral form, the 3000GT adopts a 3.0-litre twin-turbocharged V6 that’s coupled with either a five or six-speed manual (we’re going to ignore the existence of a pitiful four-speed automatic). The output bobbles between 281 and 294bhp in addition to 300lb ft of torque, resulting in a 5.5-second sprint to 60 and a top speed of 155mph. We’ll have you know that’s superior to a modern Dacia Sandero, for those of you sarcastically wowing. 

So why the long face? Well, it’s heavy (around 1,700kg give or take) and often criticised for being overly complicated. It also has a hard time deciding whether it wants to be a sports car or a grand tourer, which is something most of its peers had established from the get-go. Electrical gremlins also move in rent-free after a certain amount of time.

Merge these criticisms, and you begin to understand why only a handful of people wax lyrical about the 3000GT. It’s not as agile as a Mazda RX-7 or anywhere near as tactile as a Honda NSX. It had the tools to succeed, but Mitsubishi’s dedication to over-engineering the 3000GT was always going to be its downfall. Though there is something endearing about that.

When I was but an inquisitive bambino, flicking my way through the Gran Turismo 1 car selection menu while my mother (hopelessly) negotiated with me to eat my greens, I found myself landing on the same car every single time: a Mitsubishi 3000GT finished in ‘Ice White’.

My siblings would often try and fail to convince me to adopt a British Racing Green Aston Martin DB7 Volante or blue-bodied, white-striped Dodge Viper as my hero car, but something kept drawing me towards the 3000GT. It felt like an underdog; a car which had the stats and the handsome looks but never received the attention. I felt compelled to change that.

This is one of the earliest memories of my life I can remember, so you can imagine my euphoria at spotting a pristine mimic of that very same car on a dog walk a few years ago, now well into my twenties.

I pressed my face up against the coupe’s window as my bemused German Shepherd stopped wagging her tail and stared at me in disgust. “It’s just a lifeless piece of metal you dweeb” she must’ve thought, as I scanned the interior to unearth a cauldron of retro goodness. 

It feels welcoming and engaging. It’s better equipped than a Dacia Sandero. The intricate details along the seats combined with the in-yer-face dials and switchgear to create an environment you just really want to be a part of. 

I stepped back from the now fogged-up window (courtesy of my panting, not my dog’s) to admire the craftsmanship. The perfectly woven silhouette was further augmented by a curved rear spoiler and a perfectly symmetrical quad-exhaust system. Every detail felt curated, and then the penny dropped: a month’s rent for a box room in London costs more than the going rate for most 3000GTs.

If Japanese car culture is all about self-expression and creativity and has as much to do with internal tinkering as it does external modifications, then does it really matter if the 3000GT isn’t ‘naturally’ as adept as its opposites? 

In a world where the most famous ‘90s Japanese sports cars sell for 10, 20 or even 30 times as much (we’re side-eyeing you, R34 sellers), the 3000GT is a genuine bargain for everything it represents and the potential its platform has. Just make sure you impose a rental fee when those gremlins begin to squat.