The 2008 Mini Clubman’s rear barn doors swing open wide for easy loading, and gas struts hold them there.

TPN / ALLEN J. SCHABEN

Plenty of people have come this close to buying the sprightly, nano-scale Mini Cooper. And then they got a load of that back seat.

If you were taller than, say, a garden gnome, it was best to limit that assessment to a peek through the glass and a low whistle of skepticism. Lured into the rear’s confining web, you’d find yourself squeaking “Help me” like the man-bug at the end of The Fly.

For Mini, the renowned British brand revived by BMW, a larger model has long been part of the planned second act. Yet Mini couldn’t sell out, offer a spacious family room on wheels and keep a straight face.

THE SAFE middle ground is the Mini Clubman. As clubs go, it’s still intimate, only 9.5 inches longer than the standard Mini, with a 3-inch edge in wheelbase. The Clubman is identically jazzy inside, with the sleek surfaces and decorative flourishes that drew so many buyers to the original. Engines, transmissions and other essentials are also familiar items from the Mini menu.

What the Clubman adds is space, with the modest addition of 2.5 inches of knee room in back and 50 percent more cargo space behind the rear seat. The cargo area is accessed through a pair of “barn doors” — think ’70s party van — that, like some other Mini touches, seem more indulgent than intelligent.

The Clubman’s other bonus door is its ace in the hole, literally opening the car to buyers in search of larger digs. A single rear-hinged clamshell portal on the right side opens in tandem with the front passenger door, creating a reasonable entrance to the back where none existed before.

In my baby-choked Brooklyn neighborhood, Cobble Hill, I see regular Minis with child seats wedged in back, and I wonder: Who are these people, and what horrors would an MRI of their spines reveal? In these parked Minis, the front passenger seatback is reliably flipped forward, in mute acknowledgment of the Sisyphean task of baby installation and removal.

The Clubman seems aimed as squarely at parents as sippy cups. And since my wife has declared our 16-month-old daughter off limits for top-speed tests, I put Bianca to use by inserting her through the open-sesame side door and into her child seat — a no-strain affair.

While the back seat remains far smaller than that of a Honda Civic or other compact, it is now more usable for a toddler or limber teenager. Taller passengers will still demand a more socialist distribution of resources, with front occupants sliding forward.

As with its smaller partner, the Clubman blends inspiration and annoyance. The seats are terrific and the materials are first-rate. The Mini also delivers the safety features and optional amenities of, well, a BMW.

It takes design risks — aircraft-style toggle switches, door pulls that seem borrowed from a funhouse ride — that Toyota wouldn’t dare. But the clock-sized center speedometer is so tackily oversize that Flavor Flav might be offended. Audio controls are so enamored with their own looks that they can’t be bothered to work effectively.

The swingin’ saloon doors at the rear, a nod to the Mini Countryman and Traveller of the ’60s, distinguish the stretch Mini from its sibling. They look cool at first, with jigsaw-like cutouts that wrap around the taillights; there is a tiny wiper for each door. Fold the seats, and the Clubman’s much larger hatch and low, fully flat load floor give it a notable edge.

But the opening, unlike a delivery van’s, isn’t large enough to provide a valid reason to open just one of the two doors; a liftgate would work just fine.

A LIFTGATE would also keep rain from falling into the forward-angled hatch when the doors are open. And even with their supporting gas struts, I thought the Mini’s tiny swingers felt a bit tinny — this in a car that’s already notorious for squeaks and rattles. Ultimately, the double doors seem to be another instance of Mini preferring form to function.

The added length also detracts a bit from the regular Mini’s excellent proportions. In aesthetic terms, it’s like taking a perfect cupcake and shaping it into a loaf. If the Clubman gives up some style, it loses next to nothing in performance and economy. The Clubman treatment adds 180 pounds, for a total of 2,855 with the six-speed manual. A six-speed automatic is an option.

The Clubman’s two engines, first used on the redesigned ’07 car, are big upgrades over those in the first Minis by BMW. A base 1.6-liter 4-cylinder delivers 118 horsepower, with the Clubman S adding a turbocharged boost for 172 horsepower.

Never assume, as some do, that the Mini is just a cute economy mouse. On the road, it’s more like a razor-clawed rat, especially with the turbo engine and optional sport suspension with grippy 17-inch wheels.

With its distinguished rally-racing history, the Mini is born for twisty roads, where it feels alive, edgy and high in testosterone. Especially in tighter quarters, the Mini can bob, feint and counterpunch its way to an upset over weightier, stronger competition.

Whichever model or transmission you choose, the Clubman matches the fuel economy ratings of the smaller Mini, which range from 23/32 mpg for the automatic-transmission Cooper S to a stellar 28/37 mpg for manual-shifting base models.

Now, about that price. The Clubman starts at $20,600, with the S kicking that to $24,100. That compares with prices of $18,700 and $21,850, respectively, for the truly mini Mini two-door.

The Clubman’s $1,900-$2,250 premium over the standard model seems a bit much, exceeding the $1,800 jump from a BMW 328i sedan ($32,400) to the 3 Series wagon ($34,200). However you slice it — coupe, convertible, Clubman — the Mini is one pricey subcompact.