Everything about the prospect of a new Supra was exciting. I loved that Toyota was once again selling a powerful rear-wheel-drive sports car. That it was finally going to revive its halo performance car, one I've only gotten to know through reruns of The Fast and the Furious and by watching fourth-generation examples skyrocket in price on Bring a Trailer. This was going to be my generation's Supra. And it is, kind of.
Take away the Supra badging and I'm extremely happy with the car. With that name tacked onto the rear bumper, it doesn't quite work for me.
This new Supra is not the Japanese legend I wanted it to be. It's no secret that the fifth-generation car was co-engineered with BMW. It's built on the same platform and shares powertrains with the BMW Z4. And that's fine. I might have been able to accept that, if that's where the line had been drawn. But it's not.
On the outside, it looks the part. But that's about it. The key fob is BMW. The interior appears to be almost fully BMW—iDrive infotainment system, steering wheel, shifter, light controls, heads-up display. The chimes are BMW. It's all BMW. And, yes, it drives like a BMW.
That's not the worst thing in the world, in practice. BMWs work. The company’s history of M cars demonstrates it knows how a performance car should feel. The Supra, in the least, meets that mark. Hell, I even own three older 3-Series at this very moment. My problem is, nowadays, BMW doesn't make the most exciting sports cars. And they're obviously not known for Japanese tuner cars.
Spiritually, the new Supra leaves me hanging.
America has mid-level European sports cars. They're fine. But we don't have a multitude of special-feeling Japanese sports cars. That's the bar I set for the Supra. Miata, but more exhilarating. Toyota 86, but more grown-up. Nissan 370Z, but not 10 or more years old.
There's no authenticity to the Supra as a Japanese sports car. It's depressing for people (me) who fantasize over special Nineties Japanese cars, like the R34 Nissan Skyline GT-R, the fourth-generation Supra, the FD Mazda RX-7 and the like. We want the Supra to be that. I want the Supra to fill that void. It can’t do it. It just isn't true to that spirit.
If I wanted a BMW, I'd buy a BMW.
With that out of the way, I have to admit I did enjoy racking up miles in the thing.
Acceleration in the 382-horsepower 3.0-liter-equipped Supra is beyond adequate. Toyota claims it does 0-60 in 3.8 seconds, and I absolutely believe it. Nothing more is needed. The car is a bit quiet, and the noises it makes aren’t the most exciting, even in Sport mode, but there's still enough sound there to remind you you're behind the wheel of something fun. There’s's nothing wrong here that an aftermarket exhaust can't fix.
The Supra also feels nimble as hell. Michelin Pilot Super Sport tires gave me a surplus of confidence putting the car through its paces on winding country backroads. Grip, grip, and more grip was all I was dealt. Coming out of corners, the electric limited-slip differential in the rear helped me put power down without issue. I'm always a little hesitant with e-diffs, but I felt more in-tune and comfortable with it in the Supra than I have in comparable sports cars.
Not everything about the Supra's performance is perfect.
When not in Sport mode, I found the car to be mostly compliant. But over bridge joints and similar road imperfections, the car bounces around so much I felt like I was going to fly through the windshield. Its suspension setup isn't ideal for regular driving over haggard New York City streets. And definitely not in Sport mode, which sets the suspension too intense for anything that isn't a perfectly smooth road or track.
I agree with our previous assessment of the Supra's handling. "There’s no steering feel and the rear end provides no confidence over bumps," Road & Track's Travis Okulski wrote in our July 2020 print issue. For me, these two negatives didn't ruin the experience behind the wheel. But they did make me feel less comfortable on imperfect roads and hyper-aware of how I was tossing the car around.
Then there's the other elephant in the room. Or, should I say, on the center console. The ZF eight-speed in the Supra is fine. Great, even. Rarely did I find it getting in the way of my requested shifts during spirited driving, and around town in automatic mode it did its job without fault. But this car begs for a manual. It's my main performance gripe about my experience behind the wheel. When pushing the Supra around backroads, I already feel highly concentrated and very involved, keeping the car happy and settled on the pavement. That's great. But I want the whole package that usually comes with that experience. I want a manual.
The Supra name deserves more than this. If it were a proper, exciting Toyota sports car, it'd be something I'd personally consider cross-shopping and potentially buying, against the BMW M2, Porsche Cayman, C8 Corvette, Mustangs, and any semi-affordable sports car. I didn't want to get in a Supra and be surrounded by that same old orange gauge glow that's been populating the cabins of every single BMW for as long as I can remember. It feels like Toyota copied someone else's homework, as if it didn't even feel the need to submit an assignment. Why bring the Supra name back if this is how you're going to do it?
The Supra is fun to drive. But it feels more like an outsourced sports car, something put together to fill a gap in the middle range. I want more than that. I want it to feel special. I want it to break the rules.
A native of the famously car-loving city of New York, Road & Track’s digital director is constantly surrounded by beat-up old project cars. Brown’s daily driver is a problematic manual-swapped 1991 BMW 325i sedan, but for special occasions he pulls out his E34 M5 of the same vintage. Before R&T, Brown worked at Jalopnik, The Drive, and Business Insider, starting in the industry in 2015.
