One hundred years ago, the mid-‘20s were roaring along nicely. It was the time of the Charleston; the jazz bands were hotter, the skirts were getting shorter and the cars became cheaper and faster than ever before. In France, the cyclecar mania was reaching its end, having launched several new carmakers to the fore – chief among which was Amilcar.
Our story begins in July 1920. To give its economy a shot in the arm, the French government decided to drastically lower annual taxes on a specific type of vehicle they called the “cyclecar.” In effect, those were the 1920s equivalent of the Japanese kei car rules: three- or four-wheeled vehicles, two-seaters, 1100cc at most and weighing less than 350kg (not counting accessories, such as headlamps, fabric tops or fenders). Demand for these minimal cars immediately shot up, as did the number of manufacturers.
In the summer of 1921, a group of like-minded individuals, including a Citroën engineer, launched a new chassis under a made-up name reminiscent of a Punic general. The first Amilcar was dubbed “CC” (that must have generated some sort of effect!); it featured a 17hp 900cc side-valve 4-cyl., a 3-speed gearbox and two rather narrow seats, but no differential and no electric starter. A more powerful 1000cc “CS” chassis was added to the range in 1922.
Amilcar soon found that they needed to go beyond the strict limits of the cyclecar to grow their range: for MY 1923, an elongated CS chassis with a four-seater factory body called the C4 was added, now well above the 350kg limit. All three of these initial cars were pretty big hits for Amilcar, with thousands of chassis sold by 1925. A couple of larger chassis were also included in the range, but those competed with the likes of Renault and Citroën, thus were a much harder sell.
Amilcar’s real halo model was the 1.1 litre Chassis Grand Sport (CGS), also launched in 1923. Typically bodied as a racer, it was able to reach speeds in excess of 110kph and was sometimes referred to as the “poor man’s Bugatti.”
And there is no denying that these have the quintessential ‘20s sports car look, as epitomized by Bugatti racers. The ultimate development of the 1.1 litre sports chassis was the CGSS – the second “S” standing here for Surbaissé, i.e. “underslung” – launched in late 1925, even as the cyclecar craze died down due to the closing of the tax loophole.
Many CGSS were bodied as simply and as lightly as possible, and nearly all were roadsters. Our CC looks like it has the classic Duval body that graced most models, but anything (save, perhaps, a limousine) was possible. The exceptional one above was beautifully clad in turned aluminium by a Swiss coachbuilder usually associated with buses, for instance.
Aside from the French-built chassis, a number were made under license in Italy, Germany and Austria, as the Amilcar design seemed to really hit the mark. Many were exported to the UK, the US and even found some takers in Australia.
The CGSS could be ordered with a Cozette supercharger and many of those that were so equipped were raced – one won the 1927 Monte Carlo Rally, for instance. In standard (i.e. un-supercharged) tune, the 1074cc 4-cyl. delivered 35hp, which may appear modest, but the car itself is very light. And though it featured very basic suspension, the chassis’ lowered centre of gravity made for a decently-handling car.
As one of the cars to be seen in, the Amilcar CGSS must have had its fair share of celebrity owners and occasional passengers. But here’s where the story takes a darker turn: this passenger seat (or rather one very much like it) was the location of a legendary fatal accident.
It took place in September 1927 near Nice, on the French Riviera. Fifty-year-old Isadora Duncan, a fading but still renowned American-born star of the stage (especially as a dancer), boarded a friend’s CGSS roadster to go for a spin. As the speed gauge inched up, suddenly, Duncan’s extremely long silk scarf got caught in the rear axle, near the left wheel hub.
The car stopped immediately, but it was already too late. Isadora Duncan’s gruesome demise became one of the most famous wardrobe malfunction stories of the 20th Century. Some turned the car into something more prestigious – often, a Bugatti – but contemporary sources reported that the open-wheeled racer involved in this memorable mishap was an Amilcar Grand Sport.
Isadora Duncan’s fatal ride didn’t put a crimp in the CGSS’s style. Amilcar continued manufacturing the model until the end of 1929. But it was the last unmitigated success that the marque enjoyed: in an attempt at keeping up with the latest fashion, Amilcar launched a 2.3 litre OHC straight-8 model in October 1928 — poor man’s Bugatti indeed! A bit too ambitious and expensive, Amilcar’s 8-cyl. was replaced in 1933 by a tiny 850cc model that came way too late, on the well-worn heels of Rosengart and the Peugeot 201. Another swing, another miss.
For 1935, Amilcar tried yet another approach with a sporty-looking 2-litre saloon known as the Pégase. Alas, it also failed to gain traction and the marque was bought off by Hotchkiss. One last model bore the Amilcar name: a 1.3 litre two-door saloon called the Compound (1938-40), designed by J.A. Grégoire and featuring a light alloy body and FWD. The model’s career was cut short by the war and its tooling was partially sold off to Impéria in 1945. With hindsight, Hotchkiss should have gotten rid of Grégoire rather than Amilcar.
Amilcar, as a marque, lasted less than 20 years, but in that short time it managed to become one of the French automotive landscape’s most distinctive and innovative players. Were it not for the Duncan incident, one might add the word “cheerful” to that list…
That being said, it’s hard not to smile when faced with this glorious little roadster. Just keep all clothing, accessories and other appendages well tucked in when it’s in motion, that’s all.
Reading that account reminds me of the time my youngest sister held her Slinky outside the car window while my mom was driving. No wonder she yelled at her to ‘Let go of it!’, even if it meant the loss of her favorite toy at the time.
More Amilcar trivia. The actor/writer/director/mimic Peter Ustinov wrote of his schooldays in the 1920s:
I was, for some reason, the acknowledged expert on motorcars, being able to tell many makes by their sounds alone. In fact, for many years, I WAS a motorcar, to the dismay of my parents….I know to this day precisely what make of car I was: an Amilcar. Why I chose this spindly little vehicle, with the look of an angry insect, I do not know, but I suspect it was a dream-wish for a tubby little fellow constantly teased about his nascent corpulence to transmogrify himself into a svelte and insubstantial “bolide.”
My mother had a toothache one day, an abscess I believe, whereas the engine of my Amilcar was in particularly fine fettle. I changed gear on every conceivable occasion, revving up as I came to every bend in the road and hooting with my simulated Klaxon to warn oncoming traffic of my presence. Suddenly my mother could bear it no more.
“For God’s sake, shut up for a moment!” she cried from the depths of her yellow cloche hat.
Her father, who was walking slowly with us, held up an admonishing hand.
“Never shout at him!” he instructed his daughter quietly. “I know it is irritating, even without a toothache, dear child. But don’t think of it as the sound of an automobile; think of it rather as the sound of an imagination developing and then, you will see, it will become bearable.”
I can relate. I WAS a Jeep for some time in Innsbruck, having seen some WW2 Jeeps still being used by the Austrian Army. On our regular walks my engine constantly roared and blubbered and its rpm rose and dropped with the many shifts. I think it annoyed my older brother much more than my parents.
I’ve heard of the Isadora Duncan incident, though in my mind it was a movie star whose name I couldn’t recall and it happened in the Hollywood hills high above the city of the angels. I obviously had the details incorrect. What a tragic way to die! I’d never heard of Amilcar before. The French have a sense of style and elegance all their own and I love them for it. Thank you for enlightening us!
I still am a 1974 Innocenti Cooper 1300 – red with black roof, the optional 5 1/2j steel wheels and blueprinted motor with twin SUs…
Two Tatraposts today – we are being spoiled!
As to kids ‘being’ cars, I ‘was’ a 105E Anglia for a time, with wide steel rims and twin DCOE Webers of course. There was an especially well-kept one near my school, sans Webers.
I remember Dad talking about these; he referred to them as ‘Animalcars’. I’d read the story of Isadora’s demise. A horrible way to die, being strangled by her scarf – but it could have happened in any similarly-bodied car of the time – as evidenced by the story of it being a Bugatti (somewhat upmarket from the truth).
What a cute little car ! .
Bummer about the scarf but it was easily foreseen .
-Nate
Deary me, it’s good to know that trash news was around 100 years ago. I found a copy of that gruesomely-illustrated story you’ve inserted, and it’s clearly made up of imagined claptrap! Actually, scanning about the net, it seems there are many variations on the details of Ms Duncan’s untimely entanglement (and the old article is but one of many).
Anyway, it can definitely be said that the flashy little car certainly turned her head. (Oh come on, a hundred years ago is not too soon!)
Oddly enough, my own mum – born in ’35 – grew up riding in an Amilcar. There’s a photo of her next to it aged about 6 or 7. Quite why my grandpa bought a late-’20’s French oddball is not known, although he did detest anything English (the Irish republican descent). Seems it was worse than anything even Blighty could conjure, so underpowered that mum remembered them having to get out and walk up certain hills! It had a weeny sedan body on it, which must’ve been just too much. In fact, I read a local owner’s account of the CGSS he had that was pretty tedious with a body that brought its weight to only 550kgs, so no wonder mum’s was so awful.
There seems to be a surprising number of the blighters here in Oz. It could well be mum’s is one of ’em, as many seem to have been rebodied as sportsters.
Anyway, pretty little numbers, especially the one here in Japan, but a bit useless. Not so much a poor man’s Bugatti as a poor man’s Amilcar.
Deary me, it’s good to know that trash news was around 100 years ago. I found a copy of that gruesomely-illustrated story you’ve inserted, and it’s clearly made up of imagined claptrap! Actually, scanning about the net, it seems there are many variations on the details of Ms Duncan’s untimely entanglement (and the old article is but one of many).
Anyway, it can definitely be said that the flashy little car certainly turned her head. (Oh come on, a hundred years ago is not too soon!)
Oddly enough, my own mum – born in ’35 – grew up riding in an Amilcar. There’s a photo of her next to it aged about 6 or 7. Quite why my grandpa bought a late-’20’s French oddball is not known, although he did detest anything English (the Irish republican descent). Seems it was worse than anything even Blighty could conjure, so underpowered that mum remembered them having to get out and walk up certain hills! It had a weeny sedan body on it, which must’ve been just too much. In fact, I read a local owner’s account of the CGSS he had that was pretty tedious with a body that brought its weight to only 550kgs, so no wonder mum’s was so awful.
There seems to be a surprising number of the blighters here in Oz. It could well be mum’s is one of ’em, as many seem to have been rebodied as sportsters.
Anyway, pretty little numbers, especially the one here in Japan, but a bit useless. Not so much a poor man’s Bugatti as a poor man’s Amilcar.
Not only did we get two Tatraposts today, we also got Justy answering one of them in stereo!