That’s the good stuff covered. Here’s the bad.

It’s built to a price, which means that it feels (and is) cheaply made. The entire camera body is ABS plastic, and the lens is acrylic. As a result, using the camera never feels great and the images it makes are similar in quality to those made by a disposable one-time-use camera. This will inevitably disappoint photographers seeking to make traditionally beautiful, high fidelity pictures.

Specifications of the Kodak Ektar H35

• Camera Type: 35mm film, half-frame camera
• Lens: 22mm f/9.5 fixed-focus wide-angle optical grade acrylic lens; 2 elements
• Shutter: Mechanical single speed shutter (1/100s shutter speed)
• Viewfinder: Optical viewfinder
• Flash: Built-in flash, user-selectable modes (On and Off)
• Power Source: 1x AAA battery
• Film Frame Counter: Yes
• Self-timer: No
• Film Rewind: Manual
• Build Material: ABS plastic
• Dimensions and Weight: 4.3 x 2.4 x 1.5 inches (110 x 62 x 39mm); 3.5 oz (100g)

KODAK EKTAR H35 Half Frame Film Camera, 35mm, Reusable, Focus-Free, Lightweight, Easy-to-Use (Black) (Film & AAA Battery are not Included)

Amazon.com : KODAK EKTAR H35 Half Frame Film Camera, 35mm, Reusable, Focus-Free, Lightweight, Easy-to-Use (Black) (Film & AAA Battery are not Included) : Electronics

What is the Kodak Ektar H35

The Kodak Ektar H35 isn’t a Kodak camera. It’s a Kodak branded camera made by Hong Kong-based company RETO Project.

RETO has made a name for themselves in the analogue photography world by offering good quality products at low prices. They resurrected the 3D film camera and the cult classic Vivitar Ultra Wide and Slim point and shoot camera, and then made this new Kodak-branded thing. True to form, the H35 a simple, lightweight, compact, and cheap camera.

It comes in a vintage-looking Kodak package and comes with a nice wrist strap and a soft-touch carrying pouch, both Kodak-branded.

The Ektar H35’s key features are these: it’s a half frame 35mm film camera; it has a wide angle lens (22mm); it has a built-in flash; it has one shutter speed, so we do nothing but point and then shoot with this point-and-shoot camera.

Using the Kodak Ektar H35

To use the Kodak Ektar H35 is simple. We load the film as we would any standard 35mm film camera, advance the film manually with the little thumb wheel, look at our subject through the optical viewfinder, and press the shutter button. If we’re indoors or in low-light conditions, we can rotate the control ring surrounding the lens to activate the flash. Once it has drawn sufficient charge from the AAA battery, a flash-ready light illuminates and we are ready to fire.

When we examine the Ektar H35 on a more granular level, we see where its usability succeeds and fails. Let’s begin with the failures.

Everything feels crunchy and cheap. Advancing the film creates a hollow ratcheting sound, pressing the shutter release button feels spongy and weak, the flash selector ring is plastic on plastic, and feels that way, too. The camera is flimsy and fragile, with a finicky film door latch and a floppy film door. There’s no pressure plate to ensure the film stays flat at the film gate.

The film rewind lever is truly awful – tiny, weak, and destined to break. On my test unit, the screw that holds the rewind lever in place backed itself out and fell on the floor. I’ve spent ten years repairing scientific instruments in a previous job, so fixing the fault was a zero-point-three on the one-to-ten difficulty scale. Had this happened to someone with no mechanical aptitude, however, a fault like this could be enough to end their photography career (or at least end their time with the H35).

The shutter is limited to one speed, a relatively slow 1/100th of a second. In addition, there’s no way to adjust the lens aperture. Therefore it is imperative that we load an appropriate speed film for whatever the conditions may be in which we expect to be shooting. If it’s a bright, sunny day and we’re shooting outside, we should choose a slow film (low ISO). If we’re shooting indoors or at night, a fast film (high ISO).

The stark limitations on the exposure triangle means that no matter how diligent we may be in selecting the right film for the job, it’s inevitable that some shots on our roll will be under-exposed and some will be over-exposed. This camera simply doesn’t allow us any latitude or creative control. It’s just not there.

But there are some nice things as well, and some of the camera’s weaknesses can even be seen as strengths, depending on the user’s perspective.

It’s made of plastic, which I’ve complained about enough already. However, it’s also MADE OF PLASTIC! Which is great, because it keeps the camera light and mobile. We can pop the H35 in a pocket or bag and never notice it until the moment we want to make a photo.

The flash charges quickly and gives enough light to illuminate subjects at ten feet or closer.

There’s one button, which simplifies things.

The lens is interesting, in that it provides a fairly wide angle of view (which makes me think of the time I examined the shifting “standard” focal length, and how it may be widening as a result of the proliferation of smart phone photography). In fairness, images made with the right ISO film and in the right conditions (for example, bright sunshine, well-lit places, etc.) can look traditionally nice, well-exposed, and pretty. For the other times, the lo-fi images that it makes will certainly appeal to an entire generation of photo nerds who are accustomed to perfect digital photography.

It shoots 72 images on a standard roll of film, which cuts down on how many rolls we need to buy and develop. This can be a benefit and a fault – getting 72 shots on a roll is great for the wallet, but it can take a long time to find 72 things worthy of making into a film photo.

But truthfully, beyond the conversations around spec sheet, user experience, and image quality, the most interesting thing about the Kodak Ektar H35 is its price. We can buy the camera and a roll of film and get started on our analogue photography journey for under $60. That’s great! And at $45, I’m not too worried about breaking or misplacing the camera. It becomes a perfect launching place. I can easily imagine someone using and loving the Ektar H35 for six months before graduating to a more serious camera.

Image Quality

Images from the Kodak Ektar H35 are lo-fi (or low quality, depending on your perspective), with heavy vignetting, softness across the frame, extreme softness at the edges of the frame, flares, ghosts, and severely diminished contrast when shooting into sunlight. Essentially, the lens on this camera commits every crime that optical engineers have sought to eradicate from photography for over a hundred years.

For many new or casual users, these optical aberrations and flaws will be irrelevant and may even be desirable. Lomography has made an entire business out of selling lo-fi camera gear. There’s space for this sort of imperfection in this hobby, and the H35 adds to that space.

Interestingly, RETO has just released a new, improved(?) version of this camera called the H35N. This new model adds a built-in user-selectable Star Filter, a socket for using a shutter release cable and Bulb mode (for long exposure shooting), and most importantly, a glass lens. They say that the glass lens has improved image quality. I’ll test this, of course, but given that it has a single element, I can’t imagine that it’s much improved over the acrylic lens in this camera.

Additionally notable, the new camera costs $22 more. So the H35 (original) remains a better choice for those buying their first film camera or for those seeking to try a new film camera at the lowest possible cost.

[Color film sample images in the gallery below were provided by Rebekah Gregg and are published here with permission. More of Rebekah’s photography can be seen on their website and Instagram page.]

This shot by Rebekah aptly demonstrates the limitations of the H35’s lens. The lens’ optical simplicity and generally low resolving power create an image that’s softer and dreamier than would be achieved with a more advanced film or digital camera.

This shot by Rebekah illustrates another form suited to the half-frame camera – Diptychs, two images presented as a single piece of work, often to tell a story or present some observation which could not be easily achieved in one shot.

Kodak Ektar H35 Half Frame Film Camera (Sage)

Buy Kodak Ektar H35 Half Frame Film Camera (Sage) featuring 35mm Half Frame Film Camera, For Color and Black and White Films, Fixed-Focus Wide-Angle Lens, Built-In Flash, Optical Viewfinder, Accepts 1 x AAA Battery. Review Kodak Ektar H35

This shot by Alex McKenna (published here with permission) demonstrates the flaring that’s common with the H35’s plastic lens.

[The interesting “panoramic” image below was made by J. David Tabor, and is published here with permission. Tabor has used four half-frame shots to create a panorama of a foundry. More of their photography can be seen on Instagram.]

Additional Samples Gallery Below by the Author

Final Thoughts

The question one inevitably asks, if one is experienced in the art of freaking out over camera gear, is this: Why should I buy an Ektar H35 for $40 – 45 when I can buy a far better camera for the same amount of money? After all, a Canon Sure Shot from 1999 will come with dozens of modes and features and a much better lens. But then, we’re missing the point. There is a very reasonable answer to the question.

The Kodak Ektar H35 is easy. It has one button. It looks nice. It costs nothing. Importantly, I can walk into a Target and buy one. This ease of adoption is valuable and should not be overlooked. People like things that are easy, and the Ektar H35 is just about the easiest way to get into film photography today.

And for most people, the cheap build quality won’t offend. The lo-fi image quality will be welcomed as a charming quirk of shooting film. The retro aesthetic will be interesting and unique. For people like these, the H35 is a great camera and an important stepping stone within their photographic journey.

Get your own Kodak Ektar H35 from B&H Photo here

Shop for the Kodak Ektar H35 on Amazon

Buy a film camera from our own shop at F Stop Cameras

Kodak Ektar H35 Half Frame Film Camera (Sage)

Buy Kodak Ektar H35 Half Frame Film Camera (Sage) featuring 35mm Half Frame Film Camera, For Color and Black and White Films, Fixed-Focus Wide-Angle Lens, Built-In Flash, Optical Viewfinder, Accepts 1 x AAA Battery. Review Kodak Ektar H35

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[Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates at B&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post Kodak Ektar H35 Half Frame Film Camera Review appeared first on Casual Photophile.

Circumstances, however, made pulling the trigger on this relatively old digital camera a little more interesting. I recently acquired a small system of half-frame lenses for my Olympus Pen FT which, in theory, could adapt well to the similarly-sized APS-C sensor size of the Fuji X-T1. And seeing as the X-T1’s price dropped considerably since its release in 2014, I thought that it could (in theory) combine with the already economical half-frame Pen FT to provide a perfect solution for the constantly rising cost of shooting film, without sacrificing anything of the analog-based processes that I love.

Before long the humble, workmanlike Fuji X-T1 quickly became the centerpiece of my photographic world. It accomplished something very rare among digital cameras – it provided a real analogue (no pun intended) to the process and workflow of shooting film, and even provided a meaningful lineage and continuation from the classic camera designs I love.

And perhaps most important to film shooters in our inflation-riddled, price-gouged future of 2023, I’ve discovered that the combination of Fujifilm X-T1 and Olympus Pen FT is perhaps the most economical film/digital setup out there.

Why the Fuji X-T1?

For devoted film shooters like myself, the arrival of the Fuji X-T series (as well as Fuji’s entire line of digital cameras) was a godsend. Finally, there was a practical alternative to the cynical devotion to the same old function-over-form black blob DSLR/Mirrorless design of the Nikon D-series, Canon EOS series, and Sony A-series cameras of the day, laden with multi-purpose sponge buttons and bottomless menus. Here was something that felt like it had a lineage to the manual focus cameras we loved, without it feeling like it was pandering to the people who loved them. The Fuji X-T series was (and still is) the answer we’d been seeking.

From the jump, Fuji X-T1’s design reminded me of (and bore an uncanny resemblance to) two of my very favorite SLRs; the Nikon F3 and Nikon EM. The camera fit in the hand as easily as the compact EM and shares much the same dimensions, and the control layout almost nearly mimics that of the F3. The angular design punctuated by small ergonomic finger rests is straight out of the F3’s playbook as well, and also recalls cameras like the Pentax LX, Olympus OM-4, Canon A-1 and F-1, Minolta XD and Leica R4. As somebody who has an affinity for this specific era of SLR design, the X-T1 feels like a true spiritual successor.

Where the X-T1 starts to separate itself from other retro-chic cameras is in the purpose of its execution. It doesn’t overdo or rely on its reference points, nor does it make the reference The Point. Yes, the control layout features a big ol’ shutter speed dial, an ISO dial, switches on the front, and an on/off switch integrated into the shutter button surround, just like the F3, but it doesn’t present itself as a hodgepodge pastiche marketing exercise. The presence of these tactile dials, levers, and buttons do recall a simpler time and have some retro-chic appeal, but they primarily streamline and make simple the myriad options and controls available for digital cameras.

The design and layout of these macro-controls is so effective that there’s almost no need to menu dive; all angles of the exposure triangle are available in a simple physical form. Its analog-inspired aesthetic doesn’t just simply act as a dog whistle for the film geeks among us (remember when Leica made a digital M with a fake film advance lever?); it actually forms the bedrock of its utility, which may be Fujifilm’s greatest design achievement to date.

The camera’s user interface also happens to recreate the manual film camera experience so well that it feels tailor-made for the use of legacy lenses. Though the X-T1 was praised early on for the quality and speed of its auto-focus, its user interface seems meant for an old manual focus lens. Adjusting aperture and shutter speed feels exactly as it does on manual focus cameras, and even the focusing aids feature a fun black and white digital rangefinder which mimics the split-image rangefinders of yore. The resemblance is a little uncanny, but oddly comforting, and I actually prefer it to the focus-peaking mode, and massively prefer it to the dinky glass viewfinder with no focusing aids found on most DSLRs.

Fujifilm X-T1 for sale | eBay

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Olympus Pen Film Camera for sale | eBay

Get the best deals for Olympus Pen Film Camera at eBay.com. We have a great online selection at the lowest prices with Fast & Free shipping on many items!

My experience with the X-T1 and Legacy Lenses

Despite some initial hesitation, the X-T1 proved itself a real digital alternative to my favorite-ever cameras, and a platonic digital ideal for the film and manual-focus obsessed. With the X-T1, Fuji successfully recreated the very process of shooting my favorite cameras without ever resorting to cheap nostalgia, something I previously thought was impossible.

Revelatory though the X-T1 has been for me, there was one huge caveat that came with it and nearly all of Fuji’s cameras that initially prevented me from using them in the first place – the APS-C crop sensor. Debates about sensor size and image quality versus full-frame sensors aside, APS-C sensors still crop the crap out of the 35mm legacy lenses I love. Speedboosters purport to solve this problem (and they do, to some extent), but I don’t love the idea of throwing more glass elements at the cropping problem, nor do I love the idea of spending $700 USD for the privilege. No matter how good, the crop sensor of the Fuji X-T series really holds back raw, native adaptability between it and the full frame legacy lens systems many film shooters build their photographic lives around.

It’s this very issue which makes the Olympus half-frame lenses such a simple solution on the APS-C sized Fuji X-T1. While the Olympus half frame is still very slightly bigger than APS-C, it is the closest one can get to a native vintage legacy lens specification for the Fuji X-T series.

When used in tandem, the Fuji X-T1 and Olympus Pen FT lens system operate as one of the most elegant film/digital systems in photography, and the ideal combination for those unwilling to compromise on the film shooter’s workflow. The entire system (both bodies plus three lenses) is small and portable enough to fit in just a small bag, and one can switch from the Fuji X-T1 to the Pen FT in a couple of seconds. If it’s the real film experience one wants, the Olympus Pen FT offers one of the genre’s finest shooting experiences, and if it’s flexibility and versatility one wants, the Fuji X-T1 is there to grab everything else.

But aside from lens compatibility, there’s one thing which puts this entire system above the others – the Fuji X-T1’s film emulation. Despite being from the olden days of 2014, these film emulations still do a stellar job of approximating some of Fuji’s classic films. Fuji Pro 400H, Provia, Velvia, Acros, and even freakin’ Fuji Astia are represented in these film profiles, which can be applied both in-camera through JPEG processing, and in post-processing image editing software like Lightroom and Darktable. As somebody who doesn’t like the endless post-processing required to get RAW digital photos to look less flat, both the instant in-camera processing and the simplicity of applying a tailor-made film profile in post is extremely appealing, and even closer to the set-it-and-forget-it analog workflow.

It should also be noted that the age of these emulations has also given rise to third party improvements upon them, namely the so-called “film recipes” for different Fuji sensors. These recipes provide different in-camera JPEG processing settings for emulations of specific films, ranging from the now-extinct Kodachrome to the hyped and consistently sold-out Cinestill 800T. Whatever lingering qualms one might have about the age and quality of the built-in film profiles and sensor can be soothed by these new user-made film recipes. If it isn’t ever enough, a real film camera is only a lens swap away, and the RAW files will still be there anyway for your editing pleasure.

This brings me to my final, and perhaps most timely, point – the system could very well be one of the best solutions to the problem of rising film costs. The older Fuji X-T1 can still be had for less than $500 USD new and less than $400 on the used market, and provides quite literally an unlimited number of exposures in every different variety, while the half-frame Pen FT automatically doubles the amount of exposures possible on a single roll of 35mm film, thereby halving processing costs. Shooting without financial pressure or worry is valuable for any and every shooter, and helps us enjoy and explore the art form we love more freely.

But what’s truly special about this Fuji X-T1-based system is that it accomplishes everything in a way that’s familiar to film shooters. The Fujifilm X-T1 itself is a wonderful and actually functional tribute to every classic film SLR I love, while the Olympus Pen FT provides me one of the best real film shooting experiences out there without blasting a hole in my wallet every time I finish a roll of film. And after years and years of shooting film nearly exclusively, being disappointed with the design philosophies of the digital world, and being priced out of consistently shooting film year after year, I couldn’t ask for a simpler, more elegant solution.

Get your Fujifilm X-T1 on eBay here

Get your Olympus Pen film camera here

Surviving 2020 with an Olympus Pen FT

Josh reviews the half-frame 35mm Olympus Pen FT in this review that's much more than just another camera review.

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[Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates at B&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post The Fujifilm X-T1 and Olympus Half-Frame Lenses Make the Ultimate Digital Film System appeared first on Casual Photophile.

The result is a rangefinder-esque body style, that does away with the prism bump by flipping the SLR mirror on its side, allowing the viewfinder mirror path to be completely internal. In addition to the unconventional mirror orientation, the Pen F has two other tricks up its sleeve: the film format and the shutter.

The Pen F is a half-frame camera, meaning that the image format is half that of full-frame. For the user of this camera, this means two things. First, when the camera is held horizontally in the natural position, the image made will be vertically oriented (commonly called “portrait” orientation). The viewfinder also naturally displays the image in portrait orientation. To take a landscape orientation photo, we hold the camera vertically. This isn’t a big deal, but it’s probably the first thing that most photo geeks will notice when picking up a Pen for the first time.

The second important note is that, with a Pen, you can shoot twice the number of images on any given roll of film.

The shutter is also unique to this camera, employing a spinning disk with a cutout (rotary shutter) rather than the traditional two curtains. This means that unlike a typical focal plane shutter camera, the Pen F can sync with flash at all speeds.

To the original Pen F, two other models were alter added. The Pen FT, released in 1966, and the Pen FV, released in 1967. Identifying each is easy, and each has its pros and cons.

The original Pen F is most easily identified by the gorgeous gothic letter F engraved into the front. This camera is a full manual camera with no light meter, and no need for batteries. Further differentiating it from its later siblings is its film transport mechanism – the original F uses a double-stroke film advance.

The next model, the Pen FT, loses the gothic F and adds an uncoupled light meter. This second camera also changes the film advance to single stroke. The trade-off with the addition of a meter is that it employs a half-mirror, which allows half of the incoming light from the lens to go to the viewfinder for viewing, and half to go to the metering cell. What this means is that the viewfinder of the FT is considerably dimmer than the earlier F. Another strike against, the half-mirrors of the FT are unfortunately prone to mirror corrosion/degradation, an affliction which can only be solved by replacement.

The final iteration, the FV, was made in much smaller quantities than its two siblings. But it is essentially a Pen FT with the meter removed, returning to the same viewfinder as the Pen F.

Yoshihisa Maitani - The Man Who Made Olympus

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Okay, an all mechanical half frame camera that’s (at the youngest) nearly sixty years old. Why should we care today?

First, the Pen F was made to a very high standard of quality. The construction is all metal, and it is clear that no corners were cut in its development and production. The camera feels solid in the hand and doesn’t give users anything to worry about when it comes to durability.

Next is the size of the camera. All of the ingenuity that went into removing the prism bump, as well as the smaller frame size means that the resulting camera is almost impossibly small, and since the lenses don’t need to cover as large an image area, they can be smaller too. The Pen series of cameras are so small, in fact, that there really is no reason to not have one on you at all times, and they therefore offer a great (much more manual) alternative to a point and shoot film camera.

Although their size may be comparable to a film P&S, their image quality isn’t even in the same universe. The lenses made for the Pen F series are incredibly compact, and very sharp. In addition to their quality, there is also quite a variety. The available focal lengths range from 20mm all the way up to 800mm (28mm-1150mm full-frame equivalent), and often include a few different speeds to suit your shooting style as well as your budget (there is both a 25mm f2.8 and a 25mm f4).

Also, because of the similarity of the half-frame format to the aps-c format in terms of size, these lenses can easily be adapted to and enjoyed on a range of aps-c digital cameras for years to come.

In my opinion, the standard lenses to have are either the 38mm f1.8, or the 40mm f1.4. You really cannot go wrong with either. [More sample shots from these lenses can be seen in Josh Solomon’s incredible article Surviving 2020 with an Olympus Pen FT.]

Surviving 2020 with an Olympus Pen FT

Josh reviews the half-frame 35mm Olympus Pen FT in this review that's much more than just another camera review.

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This brings me to my last, and potentially most important reason to consider a Pen F: the cost. Despite the undeniable quality of the system, the prices for these cameras and lenses have not followed the recent trend, where the best (and sometimes not the best) film cameras have seen their prices skyrocket to eye-watering heights. What this means is that it’s still possible to pick up a very nice Pen F body with a 38mm f1.8 lens for a few hundred dollars in working condition.

More than that, in an age where a 36-exposure roll of color film costs around $16, it’s incredibly nice to get two-times the number of images without a significant loss in image quality. [A point that James made in his article Five Ways to Cope with the Rising Cost of Film.]

The Pen F lineup of cameras are incredible, and when you factor in their persistently low cost of entry, I consider them to be a no-brainer purchase for those of us who value build quality, portability, and uncompromising image quality.

Get your own Olympus Pen FT on eBay here

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[Some of the links in this article will direct users to our affiliates at B&H Photo, Amazon, and eBay. By purchasing anything using these links, Casual Photophile may receive a small commission at no additional charge to you. This helps Casual Photophile produce the content we produce. Many thanks for your support.]

The post The Olympus Pen F as a More Methodical Point and Shoot Alternative appeared first on Casual Photophile.

But look a little closer and it’s easy to see why half frame cameras have been passed over by most shooters. For decades, standard 35mm film was relatively affordable and abundant (not as pricey as it is these days) so budget-minded shooters weren’t going broke shooting 35mm. And 35mm cameras kept finding ways to get more diminutive, with Minox, Rollei, and Olympus producing superbly tiny cameras that traveled just as well as any half frame Pen. I imagine the noisier prints and marginal savings on film just couldn’t keep the format alive longterm.

So, half-frame limped along as a bit of an oddity, with camera companies making a handful of half-frame models here and there throughout the remainder of the film heyday. Browsing for cameras in the format now, we mostly see a wave of Olympus Pen models produced over the years. The Yashica Samurai also looms large due to its odd camcorder styling, as does the Konica Recorder with its glorious Walkman appeal. 

But being someone of thrift, I found these popular half-frame options a bit steep. In my price range, any Olympus Pen either didn’t include a light meter, or I had to trust an eBay listing about the accuracy of a selenium meter. The Recorder and Samurai are priced well above the value of their novel looks. Even the Canon Demi is hard to find under $100, and not totally reliable. 

So my option seemed to be the Agat-18, a Soviet camera that seemed to offer some Lomographic thrills, but perhaps little else. Then I came across the camera I ended up exploring half-frame with, the endlessly quirky Canon Multi-Tele. 

The Camera

The Canon Multi-Tele is part of Canon’s well worn Sure Shot line of point and shoots. Usually these are fine point and shoots, but aside from a few standout models they’re nothing special. But the Multi-Tele buries the lead – it’s a secret half-frame camera!

I should back up here and say that this is by far the oddest camera I’ve ever owned. This device appears to have come out in the late 1980s, the manual is copyrighted 1988. So I figured this would be a pretty well sorted, rather boring product of a fully commodified photography market. Instead, the camera is a hodge podge of ideas and features that appear to be flung against the wall to see what sticks. Given it was the late ’80s, I suspect a pile of cocaine played a prominent role in its creation.

After putting batteries in the camera, I was sure that I had bought a dud. The frame counter on the back of the camera came to life, but I didn’t think the camera otherwise powered on. I flicked the lens selector switch on the back from Off through its other two settings and the camera did… nothing. The lens cover stayed in place and I didn’t hear anything to indicate it was functioning. 

After trying that a few times, I pressed the shutter in frustration and discovered its first quirk. It’s got what I call a peek-a-boo lens. Unlike a lot of ’90s point and shoots that have a lens that opens and extends when the camera’s turned on, the Canon Multi-Tele lens lays in wait. Half press the shutter to focus, and nothing happens. You hear a slight click as the infrared system establishes distance, but the camera doesn’t appear to do anything. Fully depress the shutter, and after a slight delay, the lens cover opens and the glorious 35mm f/3.5 Canon lens appears in its glory for just long enough to take a shot. And when you take that shot, it sounds like a train going over a wooden bridge. 

This camera came out near the end of a period in time when camera makers knew that the average customer wanted the versatility of a zoom lens in a compact camera, but couldn’t quite engineer the power zooms that would dominate in the ’90s (at least at the low price point these cameras needed to hit). So the Canon Multi-Tele was one of a bevy of black plastic cameras that tried to offer a bit of versatility with a dual lens arrangement. In this camera’s case, it isn’t actually a separate lens. Instead, when you click it into tele mode (a massive 70mm zoom) it extends the standard 35mm lens out from the body and a tiny arm brings out what I believe is a teleconverter to the back. It somehow makes the entire process even louder and slower. 

Once I came to grips with a lens system that seems to have the most movable parts imaginable to take an image (and by extension, be the most easily broken), I started to look over the rest of the camera. 

Opening the back reveals the best part about the camera, its half-frame bonafides! There’s a little switch marketed “X2” which extends two tiny doors to limit the frame to the appropriate size. It’s almost as if Canon was ashamed of the feature. While the manual does refer to this as half-frame explicitly, it’s relegated to the “special shooting” section in the manual. Own who you are, little camera!

I was hopeful when looking at the top of the camera when I saw a flash button, hoping this would let me override the auto-flash. Sadly, this is only used to invoke the fill-in flash mode. 

Next to that is the weirdest addition to the camera, a button marked B-4. Having no idea what this could mean (maybe a manual one-frame reverse function for multiple exposures?), I turned to the manual. It was a bulb mode. As a photographer, I love bulb mode! It’s great for doing landscapes, showing motion, or shooting at night. But for bulb mode to work, you need two things (generally): the ability to keep the camera steady and full knowledge of the rest of the exposure triangle. And herein lies the problem.

Holding it steady isn’t easy. The camera does have a tripod mount, but it’s located on the end opposite the shutter release. And there’s no cable release. So I can’t image how you could use the mode without shaking the hell out of your shot.

But the bigger problem is you don’t have control of your aperture, so there’s no way to really judge your exposure. And even if you did, there’s no metering. This type of camera was marketed at families, not enthusiast photographers with handy spot meters. So who was this mode for? The manual suggests using it for fireworks, which I guess, sure? So there’s a dedicated fireworks mode button on the camera. Cool.

In terms of handling, the camera is pretty good. It has a small but nice grip that appears to be decked out in the finest ’80s vinyl. It gives you a nice hold on the camera. But because it’s a full-frame 35mm camera natively, it’s not exactly small. It can fit into a back or jacket pocket, but it’s nowhere as pocket-able as an Olympus Pen or even a full frame Olympus XA. 

The Form Factor 

If you’ve never shot half-frame, the experience can be liberating. Seeing the frame counter get into the 40s and realizing that you still have 30 shots left is a weird feeling. Sometimes with film photography, we can get the equivalent of range anxiety. When that roll of 35mm gets under 10 shots left, you start questioning and not taking shots. Not that this is a bad thing, it’s this encouragement to make every shot count and not just spray and pray that keeps a lot of people shooting film. Shooting half-frame on the Canon Multi-Tele hits a little different, though. It’s a slow camera, there’s no way to rattle off shots, so you’re not going to burn through shots like you can on digital. But you’re free to experiment.

A lot of people talk about using a small camera like a notebook, the Olympus XA and Rollei 35 are commonly cited for this. But these full frame 35mm cameras burn a full frame for every shot, which can get expensive and bring about hesitancy in the photographer. The half-frame format, especially today when buying and developing film is a real financial commitment, remedies this perfectly. (A bit of trivia to reinforce the theory that the half-frame camera is the ideal “notebook camera” – the original half-frame Olympus Pen was named “PEN” because its designer, Yoshihisa Maitani, intended the camera to be used like a pen and notepad, to quickly and photographically capture daily life as it occurred around the user.)

Granted, with the Canon Multi-Tele you’re still dealing with 1980s autofocus. As much as the extra frames can feel liberating and encourage experimentation, just know that you’ll have a handful of shots where the AF falls on its face. I’d say I’ve had an average of five shots per roll go bad.

That being said, I mostly like to share these images as diptychs. Sometimes a missed focus means I’m actually losing two frames, which is a bummer. This isn’t strictly necessary, even with the less than perfect 35mm lens on the camera, there’s enough resolution on slower films to create usable single images. I’ve really enjoyed Ilford Pan F and FP4+ and found even Kodak ColorPlus doesn’t get too noisy. I’d probably shy away from ISO 400 and above though (unless you’re a grain fetishist, in which case the camera does support DX coding up to ISO 3200). 

A Beautiful Albatross

There’s no doubt the Canon Multi-Tele is a compromised, quirky camera. If you’re just after a good cheap point-and-shoot, it’s not the best choice even on a budget. If you just want something pocket-able, get a Canon Z155 from the 2000s and live with the slower lens, or something from Pentax’s IQ line, or a Nikon One Touch, or any of the other millions of excellent late 1990s point and shoots that are floating around in the world today.

If you want the truest promise of the half-frame dream, get the Olympus Pen F and manual focus to your hearts content. This camera has the best image quality in a half-frame machine, plus offers interchangeable lenses and is, generally speaking, a work of industrial art.

But if you want to get a taste of half-frame freedom in a true point and shoot form factor, and at thrift store prices, the Canon Multi-Tele is certainly worth a look. Oh, and it shoots full frame, too.

Browse for your own Canon Multi-Tele on eBay

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The post Canon Multi Tele Review – For Love of a Form Factor appeared first on Casual Photophile.

“Sumimasen,” I reply, collecting myself and bowing in return. 

Amused, the man gestures towards a glass cabinet. Inside, a beautiful Tele-Rolleiflex, a perfect matte grey Mamiya 7, and a sea of Zeiss lenses surrounding a pristine limited edition Hasselblad 500 C/M. My eyes widen.

The man gestures again, this time toward banks of camera-filled glass cabinets that populate the tiny store, labeled with every camera manufacturer and film format in existence. Leica, Nikon, Pentax, Contax, Canon, Olympus, even luxury point and shoots and heavily used bodies have their own cabinets, all packed to bursting with cameras and lenses. Whatever space isn’t filled by cameras or lenses is taken by accessories – filters, straps, flashes. Even the ever-ready cases have their own perfectly organized little space.

Yeah, I think, this is the right place.

The feeling is overwhelming. Just an hour and a half ago, I set out to finally fulfill a dream of mine – explore Tokyo in search of cameras. The journey was a bit like how I dreamt it would be; I boarded a train from the outskirts of the city, threw on one of my favorite albums, and watched the expanse of the Greater Tokyo Area blur past, awestruck. After navigating the dizzying Tokyo subway system and nearly getting lost in Shinjuku’s shopping district, I arrived at a nondescript building which, according to a small yellow sign, housed a camera store on the second floor. When I finally walked in, there was a sense of completion, a sort of culmination of the hopes and dreams that come with writing for a camera website for so many years –  a sense of happiness. I would’ve hugged the elderly store owner right then and there, had it been polite to do so.

But I straighten up and regain my composure – I have a job to do. The little store contains a sea of legendary cameras, but I’m only there for one. After many minutes of wading, I find it. Sitting in the middle of a cabinet labeled “Olympus” is a pristine Olympus Pen FT, complete with a tiny Zuiko 38mm f/1.8.

There you are, I think, looking at the tiny camera. Sorry I took so long.

A shop assistant notices me gaping at the camera, comes over, and offers to take it out of the cabinet. He leads me to the counter where he sets the camera down and gestures for me to inspect it thoroughly.

I pick it up, run my fingers along its engraved sans-serif logo, turn the front-mounted shutter dial down to its one-second demarkation and press the shutter button. The camera chirps back with a healthy “chk-chk”, timed perfectly to what sounds like a single second.

I advance the wiry, almost hidden advance lever tucked below the top plate and look through its viewfinder. It’s dim, with a sequential set of whole numbers on the side, perhaps for the in-built light meter. That’s weird. And why is this thing vertical? How the hell… I then turn the camera around, unlock the 38mm f/1.8 Zuiko, and take it off the body.

Holy sh*t.

Staring back at me is a mirror mechanism more sideways than Paul Wall in 2005. I turn the shutter dial to bulb mode, hold the shutter button down and see the mirror flip sideways and snap right back when I let go. I turn the camera around, open up the back, and see a curious dimpled gray shutter curtain. I click the shutter again, see it rotate out of the way, and settle back in its perfect half-frame window. So weird.

I shut the back of the camera, mount the tiny Zuiko back onto the face of the camera, and look at it square in the lens. Internally it’s unlike any other camera I’ve ever shot, and yet it outwardly feels oddly familiar. The size reminds me of my old Leica IIIc and other vintage compact cameras, but there’s something different about this one. The clean mid-century design, the solid build, and the small bayonet mount and lens makes the Pen FT feel like, surprisingly, my Leica M2.

As soon as the thought crosses my mind, I motion to the store clerk. He understands, cracks a smile, asks me for some amount of yen, and places a small tray in front of me. I put the money in the tray as he gathers the camera’s ever-ready case and the iconic “F” script metal lens cap. He fits the camera into its case, affixes the lens cap, and holds it out to me with both hands.

“Arigatou gozaimasu.” I say to the store owner as I leave.

“ありがとうございます.” He replies with a smile.

* * *

“カ…メ…ラ? Ka…me…ra…. CAMERA!”

My pride in my rudimentary understanding of katakana disappears within a couple seconds when I see a big red neon sign that reads “YODOBASHI CAMERA” in English sitting right next to it. I contemplate going in and buying some film, but after a day of trekking across the city I need a quick breather. I sit down on a nearby bench, and decide to swap my trusty Nikon F3 out for the new Pen.

I unsling my F3 from around my neck and take a good look at it. After seven years of adventures, my old friend looks a bit tired. Its brassing goes just a little deeper, there are more nicks and dents on the pentaprism, and its once-bright red stripe looks dirty and worn. I undo its strap, and affix it to the Pen FT.

I strap up the Pen FT and head into Yodobashi Camera’s film department, brushing off the usual offerings from Kodak and going straight for the Fuji stuff that’s unavailable in North America. I choose a couple rolls of Fuji Venus 800, pay, and go back outside. Just as I stow these new rolls in my film holder, I notice a roll in the last slot. It’s my last roll of Fuji Natura 1600, generously gifted to me by Dustin, fellow Casual Photophile writer. I’d been saving it for something special, as it’s currently out of production and incredibly expensive on eBay.

I take a look around. The neons of Shinjuku begin flickering to life and the lights of Tokyo’s skyscrapers start to dot the sky. The sound of restaurant workers welcoming passersby colors the air, as does the faint smell of curry. A small kei car motors down the street, and I hear its motor sputter a little as it rolls to a stop nearby. 

I’m in Tokyo, I realize. I think that’s special enough. I leave the Venus 800 in the film holder, and load my last roll of Natura 1600.

I pick the incoming kei car as my first subject. ISO 1600 is the number of the day, so the light meter will be of no help, as it only goes up to ISO 400. Lighting will also be tricky – the only available light comes from the neons and shop lights of the Yodobashi Camera, which in this case only serve as backlight. 1/30th of a second at f/2 seems to cover my bases into the shadows, even though it will likely blow out the backlight. I twist the front-mounted shutter dial to 1/30th of a second, and click the aperture ring to f/2. My finger finds the serrated surface of the shutter release, and I point the Pen FT at the kei car.

Wait, hold on.

I forgot – the viewfinder is sideways. I turn the camera ninety degrees to achieve landscape orientation, reframe, hold my breath and press the shutter release. The camera recoils gently into my right hand, and the viewfinder blacks out for a second. For a split second, all is quiet and still. Without taking my eye from the viewfinder, I click the aperture dial two stops down, advance, and fire off another shot at a slightly different angle. Again, all is quiet and still. I exhale, and look down at the film counter.

2/72.

Seventy more shots.

I relax my grip on the Pen FT, and feel it nestle into my hands as if it’s always belonged there.

* * *

A couple of days later I’m standing outside of a train station. The text on my phone reads “Exit A4? I’m at Exit A, but I think I can get down there….” I’m getting a little anxious, but soon enough, a familiar face emerges from the underground with a smile. It’s Miki, a college friend from Los Angeles who now lives in Tokyo and wants to show me around Sensoji, one of Tokyo’s most famous temples.

After we get a quick bite in the Asakusa neighborhood, we walk towards a beautiful temple surrounded by almost-bloomed cherry blossom trees, gift shops, and Tokyo’s urban sprawl. I look through my Pen FT’s viewfinder to get a feel for how to frame my surroundings.

The Pen FT and I have become fast friends – I’ve spent a few days going around Tokyo learning its quirks. Its sideways viewfinder doesn’t startle me anymore, and neither does its weird numbered metering system. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to remember to turn the camera sideways, nor does it take a ton of effort to match up the numbers on the lens with those in the viewfinder (though I admit I’d prefer standard F stops). But I’ll have no need for the meter today – it’s sunny out and I’m still shooting through that 72 exposure roll of Natura 1600. I max out the shutter at 1/500th of a second and close the lens all the way down to f/16. Two stops of over-exposure never killed anybody (at least not on quick color negative film) and besides, I’ve got more film in case it doesn’t work out.

I snap away as we walk around Sensoji. After a couple days of getting used to half-frame, I still feel I have unlimited exposures on this single roll, which relaxes my normally conservative trigger finger. The little Pen FT seems willing to do anything, and entirely at home shooting this beautiful temple in the middle of Tokyo.

While walking along, I can’t help but look down at the camera and admire Olympus head designer Yoshihisa Maitani’s ingenious design. His love for the simplicity of classic Leica cameras shows in every line and curve. Its unbroken, smooth line that runs along the top plate (that cleverly hides the shutter release), as well as the small bayonet mount Zuiko lenses are straight from the Leica M playbook, yet it’s all shrunken into a chassis as small as an earlier Barnack Leica. But Maitani decided to take it a step further and do what Leica couldn’t – he created an SLR from the proverbial rib of the rangefinder. For this, he invented a new porroprism-based viewfinder and a lightweight titanium rotary shutter just to make sure everything fit both the chassis and the half-frame format itself. The only compromise – a vertically oriented viewfinder, resulting from the dimensions of a split 35mm frame. I’d call the Pen FT a miracle, but it makes far too much worldly sense. It’s simply a work of genius.

And it actually works. Every shot through the Pen FT has been a joy. It’s light, it’s portable, easy to shoot, easy to understand. It’s also incredibly well-made, all buttons, dials, and levers operating with a solidity and smoothness that would elicit poetry from any Casual Photophile staff writer. The control layout itself is straightforward – both shutter speed and aperture present themselves next to each other on the front face, and the advance lever is tucked just under the top plate, easy to reach when you need it and out of the way when you don’t. And unlike many SLRs, the Pen FT is naturally stable. The mirror slap recoils back into your hand, and the rotary shutter doesn’t introduce directional vibrations. Many SLRs try to solve this problem through vibration dampening systems (the Leicaflex, Minolta SRT-101 and Nikon FM) or through sheer weight (Nikon F, Canon F-1), but the Pen FT solves them simply through better design.

I raise the Pen FT to my eye and point it at a bottle left as an offering near the temple entrance. Focus, snap, advance. It’s the same action as any camera, but I’m enjoying it more than usual. The Olympus Pen FT is simply beautiful, but so is everything it’s capturing today. I turn around and look up at Sensoji through its viewfinder, press the shutter, and feel a warm crescendo of emotion as the finder blacks out and becomes clear again. This, I think, is happiness.

Miki leads me up the temple steps to the altar, says a prayer, and tosses a coin into a slatted pit. I say a prayer myself, and toss my coin in. I follow her down to a nearby booth, where I put another coin into a can, shake it about until a straw comes out, and pick from the straw’s corresponding drawer for a fortune.

“Oh no…” she says, reading the fortune.

“What happened?”

“…you got the worst one.” she says, frankly.

“Really?” I reply.

“Yeah. It says things are going to go very badly. It says you won’t be able to realize your dreams right away, and that you should prepare yourself for disappointment.”

I look back at her, confused.

“It also says that things won’t get any worse than this, so I guess that’s good? I don’t know. Luckily, there’s a rack over there that we tie all the bad fortunes to, in the hopes that they’ll actually turn out to be wrong.”

She leads me to the rack. I tie my fortune to it, look back at the temple behind me, and say a small, nervous prayer.

* * *

I’m lying down on my couch back in LA, air conditioner blasting, the thousandth rerun of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air droning on the living room TV. I’m not entirely sure what day it is, but I’m not sure that it matters either. It might be a Saturday, but I said that yesterday. Who knows. Who cares?

I wish I had never opened that fortune. It’s now June, nearly three months since that trip to Japan, and life has been just as bad as the paper predicted. The global coronavirus emergency exploded while on that trip, which nearly stranded me in Japan. The rest of the trip saw me spend hours and hours on a phone trying frantically to find a direct flight back to Los Angeles as soon as possible. And when I finally returned to LA, I found that home as I knew it didn’t exist anymore. The city was on full lockdown, all of my live shows and recording sessions were canceled and there was no hope of seeing my friends any time soon.

True to the fortune, things kept getting worse. One day during the lockdown, my father knocked on my door half in tears. My mother was having heart trouble and had been rushed to the emergency room. An ER visit turned into full-on double bypass surgery, and let me tell you, during a pandemic major surgery is doubly terrifying. Two weeks passed with no visitation. Nothing but teary, nervous updates on the phone, and some of the worst anxiety I’ve ever experienced. The day my mother finally got out of the hospital, something else happened – my nine months pregnant sister gave birth, which meant another fraught hospital visit at the height of pandemic. After everybody finally came home safe. I found myself taking care of my mostly incapacitated mother and dealing with a newborn in the house.

And the hits just kept on coming. My brother-in-law had to be quarantined separately due to a COVID outbreak at his workplace, which meant missing the first two weeks of his newborn son’s life. During that time, the virus hit scarily close to home; I heard from my mother that it killed a relative of mine in New York, and that it had infected a number of other relatives there as well. The same weeks saw protests erupt around the country, and here in Los Angeles’ protests, a few of my own friends were arrested and others shot. 

I wanted to help everyone with all of these things, but I couldn’t. Or at least I couldn’t do as much as I wished. All I could do was look on and tend to the family, knowing I couldn’t risk anything to help keep my own fragile family alive.

While these days faded into a nauseating blur, the Pen FT sat unmoved on my shelf, still loaded with the same unfinished roll of Fuji Natura 1600 from all those months ago. I never forgot about it – I just couldn’t bring myself to shoot it. Today doesn’t seem any different. Nevertheless, I know I have to finish the roll.

I text a friend who lives nearby and ask if they want a drink from the nearby coffee shop. We’ve not had contact with anybody outside of our homes for months, and I figure hanging at a distance in a parking lot with masks on is about as safe as it gets. As soon as he agrees, I put on my cloth mask, grab some hand sanitizer, and pull the Pen FT off the shelf.

I look at the frame counter. 71/72.

Ten minutes later I’m looking at the first familiar face I’ve seen since that afternoon in Asakusa. This time it’s my friend Devonte, a longtime friend and fellow Panorama City native. I gesture to his order on the takeout table and he takes the drink.

We talk for what seems like a few minutes, but what actually lasts for a couple of hours. He catches me up on his life; I catch him up on mine. It isn’t looking good either way. It doesn’t look good around us, either. Most businesses we’re passing are boarded up, some windows are smashed in. There’s a new anxiety in the air, and we can see it in everybody who passes by. Soon, we recognize it in each other too.

Devonte takes a look at me.

“But how about that trip to Japan? That must’ve been pretty cool. I mean you’ve got that new Olympus with you.”

“Yeah,” I reply, looking down at the Olympus Pen FT in my hands. 

“How is it?” he asks, warily.

“Oh, it’s just about perfect for my shooting style and budget. The half-frame format gives me twice as many exposures, the thing’s built a lot like my M2 and feels just as good, and it’s just a great camera all around….”

“…but?” he asks. He knows I’m avoiding something. I think of mentioning the dim viewfinder, but there’s no point in dancing around the subject.

“Well, to be honest, it’s too good.” 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. The Pen’s perfect, or at least it’s everything I want a camera to be. Its design is genius, it’s easy to use, and it’s the most practical film camera I’ve ever used. More than even my most trusted cameras, it makes me want to keep shooting, keep having adventures, keep loving photography. I don’t think I had more fun shooting a camera than I did shooting this thing in Tokyo. I had plans to take it back with me to LA to shoot shows, recording sessions, tours, everything. It was going to be my number one. But then I actually got home, and all of those plans just… vanished.”

Devonte nods. I think he knows where I’m going with this.

“And now whenever I look at the Pen, I start to miss that feeling I had when I shot it, you know? I start reliving that trip all the way down to the last detail, like I’m trying to keep that memory alive somehow. I look through the viewfinder and I’m back in Asakusa in the spring, back in Shinjuku hunting for film, back on a train half-asleep, watching the Tokyo night lights blur past, without all this worry about death and disease and…”

I start to feel the blood rise to my cheeks with the memories, and feel my chest sink beneath the weight of the months that followed. The emergency hospital trips, the tearful phone calls and countless fraught text messages, and the terrifying helplessness that comes under a worldwide quarantine all hit me at once.

“…to be honest, I think that was the last time I really felt happy this year.”

The world around me starts to feel distant and alien, nearly unrecognizable. Even though I’m only a couple miles from my house, I feel just as far from home as I do from Tokyo.

“I think that’s what makes it so hard to shoot this camera these days. I know it’s just a camera, but to me it’ll always belong to that time, that place, that feeling. I don’t know when, or even if, that’ll ever come back.”

I try to take a sip of my coffee, but realize there’s nothing left in the cup. Devonte notices, and sighs.

“I feel you, man,” he replies, with characteristic sympathy.  “But it’s a new world now. I don’t think we could go back even if we tried.”

He’s right. I can’t make any of it come back. No amount of reliving, writing, or photography could ever bring that back. It’s gone, and I don’t know what will take its place. I don’t even want to know.

But then, there’s still this little camera by my side. There’s still one frame left. If I can’t find shelter in the past, and if my fortunes don’t bode well for the future, I at least need to give myself a shot at finding some happiness in the present. Might as well try with the last camera that made me happy, once upon a time.

The sun’s setting. The light’s running out. It might as well be now.

“Hey Dev,” I start. “Before I go, can I take your portrait?”

“Sure.”

I pick the Pen FT up, and immediately my hands remember it. The dials still snap beautifully into place. The sideways viewfinder still charms me. The design is still ingenious, and the whole body of the camera still feels like it belongs in my hands, just like it did before. I know it’s just a camera, but I think this one’s different. I’ve been through enough with this camera to really call it mine. And I want to keep going with it, no matter what happens.

I press the shutter release and the camera plays its familiar split-second symphony for me one more time. The camera recoils gently into my hand, and the viewfinder blacks out. All is quiet and still, once more.

72/72. There you are. Sorry I took so long.

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Say I owned a camera company in 1987. And say an employee approached me with the idea to combine the features of a point and shoot, an SLR, and the (even by then long-abandoned) half-frame format into one 35mm camera. I’d have a lot of questions. Questions like “Why?” and “Who is that for?” And then I’d say “No.” But when this very scenario happened at Kyocera, the decision-makers there asked only one question (presumably). “Can we fit it inside a taco shell?” And the Yashica Samurai was born.

After using the camera for a few months, I understand why the concept and the camera failed to catch on. The Yashica Samurai in all of its forms is defined by its camcorder-like shape. Intended for one-handed shooting, my hand fits snugly around the side and rests in a grippy alcove, with my pointer finger resting naturally on the shutter button. This is helped by the included “action grip,” a piece of rigid plastic that makes carrying the camera much easier, especially when not shooting. There’s even a notch on the opposite side of the camera where the shooting hand’s thumb is supposed to rest, although I more often found myself wrapping my thumb around the back of the camera onto the film back. There’s a nice little depression where the film window is that my thumb fit into perfectly.

One interesting quirk of the taco design is that the film runs vertically through the camera. This actually makes the Samurai shoot in landscape by default, something that’s uncommon with half-frames.

But is it fun to shoot? Simply, yes. If you grew up using camcorders (sorry Gen Z) you’ll feel right at home with the Samurai. As long as your hand reaches the shutter comfortably, you really can use this camera one-handed. Combined with its point and shoot sensibilities, the Samurai provides a noticeably liberating shooting experience for a camera of its size.

Liberating, that is, when people aren’t asking you what you’re filming. I’ve never been asked about a camera more than when carrying the Yashica Samurai. I think the ubiquity of camcorders throughout the 1990s and 2000s means that everyone has fond memories of capturing family vacations, birthdays, and the like on small tape cassettes. They see the Samurai and remember the moments from their past, frozen on magnetic tape. Upon explaining that, no, this isn’t a Sony Handycam, it’s actually a stills camera, I had more than one person balk and ask “Why?”.

That would be the first question I’d ask about the Samurai too, though as mentioned, I have more. Why is it an SLR? Why is it half-frame? Why is it so big? Thankfully nobody asked me these questions, because I wouldn’t know what to tell them.

The size, I suppose, could be chalked up to the lens. The 25-75mm f/3.5-4.3 Yashica lens is considerably larger than anything on other point and shoots, and is sharper as well. The 35-105mm equivalent focal length covers general shooting, and the aperture is faster than many point and shoots. The lens makes nice pictures, when the Autofocus isn’t getting in the way.

Though my expectations were low, informed by years of shooting point and shoot cameras from the same era as the Yashica, I was still surprised at just how bad this camera’s autofocus operates. Even in bright light, the Samurai hunted for focus for two to four seconds while screaming at me for having the nerve to try to focus on anything but a static, contrasty background. Loud, slow, and inaccurate, the Yashica Samurai’s autofocus is all of the things a real Samurai isn’t!

The nice lens and terrible autofocus system is stuffed into a body that, while strangely designed, is made of solid plastics that leave the entire thing feeling sturdy. The camera feels premium, and far outclasses most other point and shoots coming out at the time, aside from things like the original Contax T, released in 1984.

But was the Contax even the Samurai’s target? That question gets to the heart of the matter. What is the Yashica Samurai trying to do, trying to be? Who is it for?

The Yashica Samurai is a lot of things, and none of them fit perfectly with the others. It’s a premium-feeling point and shoot for discerning photographers. And it’s a half-frame camera for people who care more about stretching a dollar than making a nice image. And it’s an advanced SLR with a better-than-average lens, but it has no manual controls. And it’s meant to be used with one hand but it’s heavier and harder to travel with than any point and shoot. It’s only marginally lighter than the much better focusing autofocus SLRs of the time. Are you confused? I am.

In my opinion, adding even the most basic manual controls would have made it a more attractive option to the then-burgeoning market for high-end point and shoots. Something like the Ricoh GR1’s aperture selector dial, or even a full SLR style mode dial would have been possible on the Samurai’s left side, which is completely devoid of controls aside from the power switch. Without any control, the Samurai has the size and weight of an SLR with the features of a basic point and shoot, all combined with the lower image quality of half-frame. It’s hard to argue that that this isn’t the worst of all worlds.

Like I said, though, using the Yashica Samurai was really quite nice. I assumed the larger, premium lens would compensate for any half-frame loss of quality, and even if it didn’t fit in a bag as well as a Nikon OneTouch or any other point and shoot, carrying it around was just as easy because of the ergonomic shape and grip. I’ve carried tacos around before, I’ve even driven a car while eating them. I know how to hold this camera. Ideally, the half-frame Samurai would produce twice as many images as a comparable point and shoot without losing quality, which is an attractive elevator pitch.

By fitting two shots onto what would be one frame on a normal camera, the Samurai, and other half-frames, create diptychs. These pairs of photos enable the photographer to tell a story with two images rather than just one while simultaneously annoying the poor sap who has to do the film scanning at the local photo lab.

Thinking in terms of diptychs is an entirely new process for me, and something I would recommend everyone try, even if you don’t have a half-frame. If a picture is worth a thousand words, what are two pictures worth?

The Samurai was my trusty companion for a few weeks before I got any film developed, and despite its flaws I was ready to make it a permanent resident of my camera bag. I have an ongoing search for the perfect “bring-everywhere” camera for me, and the Samurai was fun, interesting, and felt premium. I even grew to love the cacophony of whirs and buzzes that come with using any older autofocus camera but seemed to be just a bit louder with the Samurai. Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but the Samurai really is charming in its own bizarre, backwards way.

Unfortunately, this individual camera has an issue I’ve seen in other reviews where there is a dark patch on the bottom of the frame. From what I can tell, the shutter timing is off somehow, and the mirror is blocking part of the frame on higher shutter speeds. It’s something I’ve seen before in other cameras, and is fixable in most, but the tiny half-frame mirror box and complex electronic nature of the Samurai make it something I would be hesitant to try to repair or even send to a technician.

The shots I got back, although marred by the darkened section, show that the Samurai is a camera worth using if you can find one that works. It makes better images than comparable point and shoots on half as much film. The lens is capable of producing out-of-focus areas and flattening backgrounds, especially at 75mm, where I was most impressed with it. I don’t normally use zooms, preferring to leave them as wide as possible, but I found myself consistently (albeit slowly) zooming in to the 100mm equivalent long end of the lens.

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