Ask a young person today to name the coolest person they can think of, and they’ll probably name a musician or an actor. Ask that same question to someone in the mid to late ’60s, and they might have named an automotive executive—John Zachary DeLorean, who would have been 100 years old today.
John Z. DeLorean embodied the executive-as-pop-culture role that so many in Detroit today would love to inhabit. In an era where his fellow executives at GM wore dark suits, light shirts, and muted ties per company rules, DeLorean sported long sideburns and Italian-cut suits with wide ties. He dyed his hair black, dated supermodels, played the saxophone, and spoke his mind. None of it would have flown at General Motors were he not very good at his job: He rose from assistant to the chief engineer to head of the division in nine years, becoming the youngest person ever to head a division at GM. After just four years, he had transformed the sleepy Pontiac division, and GM promoted him to head of Chevrolet.
Gearheads remember John DeLorean for developing the 1969 Pontiac Grand Prix—an all-new, fresh iteration of the nameplate that defined a segment—and the Chevrolet Vega, which had a more mixed legacy, but most of all for the Pontiac GTO. Arguably the first muscle car, the model was born in 1964 as an option package on Pontiac’s mid-size car, the Tempest, that blessed it with the 389-cubic inch V-8 of its bigger sibling. It, and the standalone GTO model that followed, revitalized Pontiac’s image in the eyes of young buyers and remains a beloved classic today.
DeLorean famously left GM—when the next logical step seemed a promotion to president—to start his own car company (after a brief stint heading The National Alliance of Businessmen). He would later write about the decision, in On a Clear Day You Can See General Motors: “As I grew in the corporation, I guess I gradually came into conflict with it. Conflict with the philosophy of business. Conflict with the system of management. And conflict with the people in positions of power.”
We all know how the story of the DMC-12 ended—DeLorean, having run out of money to build the car of his dreams, was caught in a hotel room with a suitcase of cocaine in a sting operation by the FBI. Though acquitted in August of 1984, after a wildly publicized trial, he would never outlive the association.
The movie that would catapult his car (and name) into immortality arrived barely a year after the acquittal—and by then, it was too late. The DMC factory had ceased production in 1982, and the company had filed for bankruptcy before the verdict was announced. DeLorean’s life had fallen apart: Cristina Ferrare, John’s third wife, who had stuck by him through the limelight of the trial, divorced him a month after it ended. The two split custody of their children, Cristina’s son, Zachary, whom John had adopted, and their biological daughter, Kathryn.
John never stopped trying to resurrect his car company. The U.S. Patent and Trademark Office shows a filing for a trademark for DeLorean Automobile Company dated September 22, 2004. John died of complications after a stroke at a hospital in New Jersey not five months later. John’s daughter, Kathryn, wasn’t with him—no one had told her.
Though she long sought to distance herself from her famous last name, and the cocaine jokes, today Kathryn wants to continue her father’s mission and honor his legacy by re-establishing the company. She shared the following with us ahead of her father’s birthday: “Every day, I am reminded of the impact my father had on this planet. From the small acts of kindness to the lives inspired by his creations. I am blessed to have these stories shared with me, allowing me to embrace my father and his accomplishments 20 years after his passing. Happy birthday, Daddy, I miss you and promise to show the world the man you truly were and the legacy you meant to build.”
John DeLorean’s legacy was always going to be hotly contested. The fight to produce cars under his name is ongoing, embroiled in legal arguments, and tangled in family history. The full story may not be told until after the dust settles, but the players are, briefly, these: The Texas-based company DeLorean Motors Reimagined, born from a collaboration between Steven Wynne, who bought up all the original parts and owns the trademark, and Joost de Vries, an investor who wants to make electric cars; and Kathryn DeLorean, John’s daughter, who argues that the DMC name is her birthright and that the Houston company is guilty of infringement. She also wants to use the name to build cars, but in the sense that the Girl Scouts sell cookies: To fund an education program that will equip young people for jobs in the automotive sector.
For now, just remember that the Alpha 5 (below) is the all-electric product of the Houston company, and that Kat, who lives in New Hampshire with her family, plans to offer a modernized DeLorean body kit designed to fit a C8 Corvette. Don’t confuse the cars—neither of which is available for sale yet—or the companies.
He was not only a nonconformist; he was an idealist. “At General Motors the concern for the effect of our products on our many publics was never discussed except in terms of cost or sales potential.”
Whenever you see these cars, remember that the DeLorean legacy reaches back further than a sci-fi movie from the ’80s or an infamous drug trial. Without John DeLorean, we might not have had the muscle car—he was one of the main architects of the Pontiac GTO—and GM’s history would have been a lot simpler … and much less interesting. Happy 100th, John.
Report by Grace Houghton for hagerty.com
