The Maserati Folgore: When Lightning Strikes (Silently)

Look, I get it. A Maserati without a screaming Italian engine is like pizza without cheese—technically possible, but why would you hurt yourself like that? Yet here I am, fresh off a few days with the GranTurismo Folgore (that's "lightning" in Italian, because of course it is), and I'm experiencing what scientists call "cognitive dissonance" and what I call "my heart says no but my spine says YES PLEASE MORE."

The Power: Physics Meets Italian Temper

Three electric motors. 751 horsepower. Nearly 1,000 lb-ft of torque. These aren't numbers—they're a threat. The Folgore doesn't accelerate so much as it relocates you through spacetime. One moment you're at a stoplight questioning your life choices, the next moment you're explaining to your chiropractor how your spine became personally acquainted with the seat latch.

The party trick here is torque vectoring via two rear motors that basically turn the car into a corner-exit slingshot. It's like having a co-pilot who's really good at geometry and slightly vindictive about it. The car is heavy (batteries don't do Weight Watchers), but the power is so absurd that you don't notice until you hit the brakes. Then you notice. Your tires definitely notice. Your bank account will notice when the tire bill arrives like an Italian invoice—expensive and slightly accusatory.

The Grand Tourer Part: Yes, There's Actual Comfort Here

Shockingly, Maserati remembered that "GT" means "Grand Tourer," not "Guaranteed Tinnitus." The seats are supportive enough for spirited drives but won't turn your lumbar region into origami on road trips. The back seats? Actual humans can sit there. Not happy humans over six feet tall, but humans nonetheless. Progress!

The ride modes aren't just digital theater, MAX RANGE mode genuinely floats through the city, while Corsa mode tightens everything up like an Italian tailor having a really good day.

Fair warning: the car sits low. Watching passengers extract themselves looks like a slow-motion parkour fail. I've seen more graceful exits from carnival rides. Bring flexible friends.

Inside, the Sonus faber audio system is so good it makes Apple Music sound like a live performance. I may have sat in my driveway finishing songs. Multiple times. Don't judge me. Also, the wireless charger works with your phone case on, which means someone at Maserati actually uses technology instead of just designing around it. Give that person a raise.

The Looks: Subtlety's Italian Cousin (Doesn't Exist)

My test car came in what I can only describe as "neon existential crisis green." This color doesn't whisper, it testifies. In court. Under oath.

The GranTurismo shape itself is gorgeous: long hood, muscular haunches, proportions that make sense from every angle. But it's long, which you'll discover while threading through city streets designed for horses and reasonable life choices.

The trunk exists and functions, I successfully transported cat supplies, which is the real luxury car test. Sam's Club runs? Bring a friend with a sensible car. The details are where Maserati flexes: a mini digital clock that changes faces like a moody teenager, metal pedals that feel properly serious, and "Folgore" badging that whispers instead of screams. It's Italian theater, just the tasteful kind.

The EV Reality Check: 800 Volts of "Actually Not Bad"

The Folgore runs an 800V system that fast-charges from low to 80% in about 20 minutes—assuming you find a charger having a good day. That's "grab a coffee and pretend to check emails" quick, not "read War and Peace" quick. Range depends entirely on whether you drive like a responsible adult or like someone who just discovered what 751 horsepower feels like. Spoiler: I made friends with charging stations.

The regen paddles make one-pedal driving easy around town, though I'm convinced they were designed by someone who's never worn winter gloves. And yes, the touchscreen collects fingerprints like it's building a federal case. Bring microfiber cloths. Many microfiber cloths.

The Soul-Searching Bit: Where's the Opera?

Let's address the elephant in the room—the silent elephant. There's no engine noise. Maserati piped in some futuristic EV soundtrack, but if you grew up on Italian V8 symphonies, your soul will file a missing persons report.

Here's the plot twist: the silence makes everything else louder. The Sonus faber system becomes your soundtrack. The weight transfer through corners feels more surgical, more present. You hear the tires working, the road texture, your own breathing when you realize you just took that corner way faster than physics should allow. It's not better than a screaming engine—it's just different drama. Italian opera versus Italian cinema.

The Formula E Flex (That Actually Matters)

"Formula E DNA" usually means "marketing borrowed a phrase," but the torque vectoring and thermal management here feel legitimately race-derived. After repeated hard pulls, the Folgore stays composed like a professional poker player. The way it meters power to each rear wheel and gently suggests "perhaps this is the better line, friend" feels more algorithm than gimmick. It's got the patience of a track coach and the reflexes of someone who doesn't want you to look silly.

The Gripes (I Contain Multitudes)

Visibility: Those gorgeous hips create blind spots. Parallel parking requires faith, hope, and possibly prayer.

Gear buttons: Beautiful to behold, stubborn to press. They respond like a cat being told to do literally anything.

Touchscreen: Gorgeous until touched. Then it's a fingerprint museum. CSI would have a field day.

That green paint: Amazing for photos. Less amazing when you're trying to be subtle literally anywhere. Church parking lots become judgment zones.

The Verdict: For the Emotionally Conflicted

If you need to wake the neighbors at 6 AM, buy the gas GranTurismo, it's still available and still glorious. If you want supercar pace, actual comfort, and Italian drama wrapped in whisper-quiet instant violence, the Folgore makes a compelling (if confusing) case for your heart and wallet.

It's a statement piece that moonlights as a functional car. It sprints like a scalded cat and settles like a trained athlete who does yoga. I'm emotionally torn, dynamically impressed, and, fine, I'll admit it, low-key addicted to that teleport button disguised as an accelerator pedal.

Maserati built an EV that doesn't apologize for being electric but still remembers it's a Maserati. That's harder than it sounds. And way more fun than it should be.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some tire prices to not look at.