The M6 has such a glorious reputation that the thought of writing about it seems to demean it. “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image” and neither should you judge the supposed pinnacle of German engineering. But occasionally the untouchable has to be examined, without silk gloves. 

In 1984 when the M6 was first introduced, it was especially popular amongst photojournalists and street photographers. Its compact design and the sturdy magnesium alloy body made it a discreet companion for tough environments. It eventually became the longest-produced Leica rangefinder.

In 1998 when the original M6 was discontinued, the Leica M6 TTL stepped in for another four years without introducing major aesthetic changes besides a bigger shutter dial. And still to this day the M6 influences the appearance of Leica’s M-mount rangefinders – even the digital ones. 

The Leica M6 is a fully mechanical masterpiece allowing the user to shoot at any shutter speed from 1/1000 of a second to one second, or bulb mode, all without batteries. The two LR44 batteries hidden beneath a circular cap on the camera’s front are only there to power the internal light meter.

The camera has some weight to it. 560 grams does not sound like a lot, but considering the body’s size it does become a pretty hefty tool to carry around your neck all day. Though the internal mechanisms weren’t as robust as earlier Leicas, nor hand-assembled in the old method, my years shooting the Leica M6 have always felt confident.

Aesthetically it’s gorgeous, the classic Leica design. Ergonomically it’s similarly classic – in ways both good and bad. Holding it in one hand is not all that easy, because we are missing any sort of grip to hold on to. But since the M6 is so coveted, maybe gripping it with all of your fingers is not that bad of an idea. After all, that big red dot is especially visible on the Leica M6 (all previous models where a bit more discreet about their heritage). 

As with most cameras, the top plate of the Leica M6 is where we find most of its controls. The shutter button sits in the middle of the advance lever and allows us to screw in any regular shutter cable release. The film counter lies right next to it and is very clear and easy to read. Once we’ve finished the roll, flipping up a small lever that sits right beneath the bold “LEICA M6” engraving on the front allows us to rewind film using the lever situated at a slight angle on the left of the top plate. This mechanism was first introduced on the Leica M4 and accelerated the rewinding process over the previous M2 and M3. The film counter will reset itself once we unload the film through the bottom plate. Unloading an M6 is easy. Loading, on the other hand, will be foreign to some.

To an SLR shooter, the loading process on a Leica camera can appear a bit cumbersome. You first need to remove the bottom plate by rotating a knob on the opposite end of the tripod mount. Then, once you have removed the entire plate the film strip needs to be expanded to reach the second spool on the opposite side. Unexperienced users will usually waste one or two shots per roll by making sure the spool really catches onto the strip before reattaching the bottom plate. Otherwise you risk getting to 37, 38 and 39 shots on the film counter before realizing the 36 moments you had tried to capture previously are really nothing more but a fading memory. From my own experience I would go as far as to classify this incident as a traumatic event.

Leicas have been loaded this way since the M4 came out in 1967, but I would argue the previous models’ loading mechanism was actually smoother. Though you had to insert the film leader into a separate spool which slowed down the process, chances of not exposing a film at all were very low. So while Leica’s “bottom loading” is not especially convenient, the process has sure been improved over the years – at least concerning speed. 

A less debatable “downgrade” from predecessors is the M6’s ISO dial on the back. While older Leicas like the M3 and M4 were equipped with a beautiful metal plate, newer cameras have a much simpler, plastic dial. Though the M6’s ISO dial – which is coupled with the internal light meter – goes all the way up to 6400, there is something about the little sun and light bulb painting on the back of older models that really conveys the brand’s attention to details. The functionality may have increased (those earlier Leicas with their beautiful ISO dials had no light meter), but the camera back has lost some of its charm.

Talking about purpose: there is no wheel for exposure compensation on any film Leica rangefinder. Therefore pushing or pulling your film requires you to set a lower or higher ISO respectively on this dial instead. The decision to leave out any additional buttons and levers is what makes this camera so simple and reliable.

Looking at the very few changes Leica has made to its cameras since the M6 came out, it seems that Germans feel they’ve found the quintessential formula for rangefinders. The original M6 came in two colors, black and silver. Both were available with three different finders that featured different magnifications and frame lines. Then came the M6 TTL that allowed for through-the-lens flash synchronization, and Leica also introduced countless limited edition specials of this camera to commemorate many things – the discovery of America, the Danish Royal Wedding, or the turn of the millennium, just to name a few.

But the differences in these special editions are pretty frivolous (except to fat-pursed collectors). The changes concerning the finder magnification are probably the most important ones to keep in mind, since they influence the combination of frame lines which the camera displays, which models are best for which lenses, and which are best for certain types of photography.

It is important to note that most of the Leica M6 viewfinders indicate two frame lines simultaneously. If you were to buy an M6 with a 0.72x magnification finder, which is the most common one, shows the following frame line combination: either the 28 and 90mm, 35 and 135mm, or 50 and 75mm focal length frame lines in pairs. With the 0.85x magnification the 28mm focal length cannot be previewed through the finder. On this model the frame line combinations are as follows: 35 and 135mm, 50 and 75mm, plus the 90mm frame line displayed on its own. Last but not least, the 0.58x magnification finder displays the frame line combinations 28 and 90mm, 50 and 75mm, and the 35mm frame line on its own. 

There are a lot of numbers that can to be looked at when buying an M6. Real Leica aficionados will consider the serial number on the top plate, look for special editions produced in limited quantities, or find out which viewfinder is the rarest one just to up the value of their newly acquired treasure. But luckily for less particular shoppers, any Leica M6 is a solid choice that will always deliver on the great user experience that makes Leica cameras so unique. 

Buying a Leica is always an investment, not just because of the price tag or the cult you get to be a part of. A well cared for Leica M6 is simply a reliable tool. It is a camera that does not get in the way of your photographic journey. It can even fit into your pockets. This camera does not try to be great, it simply is. And the engineers at Leica worked hard for it.

If you compare the M6 to its predecessors there are countless ways in which it’s been improved. Though the Leica M5 has its own appeal, back when it was first introduced the general response was quite bad. Leica therefore really had to earn back its reputation after the misstep. Perhaps for this reason, the Leica M6 is humble, and maybe that is why it’s such a good Leica to own. It does feature the red dot more prominantly than the M3, M4 or M5 but not out of pride or pretentiousness. The red dot is a burden. It raises expectations, and the M6 manages to meet those expectations. It convinces professionals, enchants amateurs and leaves a lasting impression on everyone in between. 

Maybe writing about the Leica M6 wasn’t that dangerous after all, even without my silk gloves on. If there’s one takeaway from this review, it might be that trying to temper my everlasting euphoria for Leicas is simply impossible. Maybe because they are just too good. 

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But don’t just assume I’m saying this lens is “the best,” and go closing that tab quite yet. Unpack that first paragraph and we get to some finer points. I implied that the lens isn’t expensive. It’s not, but only compared with other Leica lenses. And I called it characterful, but we can just as rightfully reverse the synonym back to imperfect – because it is. In the case of the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm (as in all things, really), the truth of the matter lies somewhere in the details.

Brief History and Variants of the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8

The Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8 debuted at Photokina in 1970, providing Leica R mount landscape, architectural, reporting, and advertising photographers with an ideal lens for their work. It was produced for a respectable twenty-two years, from 1970 to 1992, and was offered in two-cam, three-cam, and R-only configurations throughout the decades. Serial numbers beginning with the number “2” were made during the 1970s, while serials beginning with “3” were made in the 1980s and ’90s.

The earliest version has a Series 7 (48mm) filter thread, as well as an attachable lens hood into which a filter may be inserted (shown in this review). Later versions have built in lens hoods and a more commonplace 55mm diameter filter thread. The latest model added ROM contacts for use with the R8 and R9 (and cost $2,500 when new). Approximately 50,500 total Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8 lenses were made. Of this number, 44,500 were black paint units while 6,000 were painted Safari green to match the Leica R3 Safari cameras.

Build quality is excellent, typical of classic Leica quality. The made-in-Germany Elmarit has a full metal body, including focus and aperture rings, mount, lens barrel, and filter thread. The focus action is smooth and weighty, and the aperture ring clicks into its half-stop detents with confidence. It’s a dense, weighty lens; the kind of optic which is as fun to hold and look at and actuate as it is to shoot.

Specifications of the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8

• • Leica Cat. Numbers – 11204; 11247; 11206 – Safari
  • Designer – Rudolf Ruehl
  • Production Years and Total Produced – 1970 – 1992; 50,500
  • Variants – 2-cam, 3-cam, R-only; Olive Safari edition
  • Elements and Groups – 8 / 8
  • Aperture Range – F/2.8 – F/22, half-stop increments
  • Diaphragm – 8 blades
  • Close-focusing Distance – 30 cm (11.81 inches)
  • Angle of View – 76 degrees {diagonal)
  • Dimensions (Length x Diameter) – 40 x 62mm (1.57 x 2.47 inches)
  • Weight – 275 grams (9.7 oz.)
  • Leica Accessories – Hood (12509), Lens Cap (14172)

Real-world Use and Image Quality

There’s nothing too exotic about the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8. Shooters who have used any 28mm lens in the past will know what to expect in terms of framing and composition, and will likely already have an opiniion on the focal length in general terms. For those who may not be sure whether or not the 28mm lens is relevant or useful or necessary, here’s my take.

The 28mm lens is a perfect focal length for those of us interested in capturing context and feeling. In landscape, architectural, and editorial shooting it is superb, and when shooting street photography it is a nearly perfect perspective with limitless versatility. It’s my go-to focal length for traveling (alone or with the family). I used the Leica 28mm just a few months ago to shoot a wedding (as a guest) and it did everything that I wanted it to do. I loved using it, and the images it made were great. The 28mm lens is a real do-everything lens, more-so than even the “standard” 50mm (for me), and every serious camera-liker should own and shoot one (regularly).

This Leica 28mm lens, specifically, has its strengths and weaknesses. In practical use it is a pleasant and engaging lens. The focus action, which rotates approximately 270°, is smooth and precise (though a bit long for fast focusing). The aperture ring is placed far enough from the focus ring to create a nice differentiation between the two controls. There’s a zone focus scale, a big three-dimensional index dot, and the action of mounting the lens and filters feels solid and intentional.

All of which is nice. But lenses are made to make images. How does this one perform?

In real-world use, the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8 is all the 28mm lens that most people will ever need. A quick maximum aperture of F/2.8 allows for excellent low-light performance. Leica’s optical formula does its job well, creating punchy and dynamic photos in both color and black-and-white. The close-focusing distance allows versatility. It’s a solid lens, and if you’re one who doesn’t get hung up on details that will likely be all the info you need. For those who want to know a bit more, we can get a bit more granular in our examination. Let’s spend a few paragraphs on sharpness, bokeh, distortion and other optical characteristics.

This lens makes sharp images, but exactly how sharp will depend on certain factors. Center sharpness at all apertures is excellent – easily comparable to the best 28mm lenses made in the manual focus era. Stopping down the lens just one stop, to F/4, creates about as much across-the-frame sharpness as anyone will ever reasonably demand, especially on film. Stopping down further to F/8 turns the lens into the essential “F/8 and be there” tool of the photojournalist. Sharp from edge to edge. Are there sharper 28mm lenses out there? Maybe. The Ricoh 28mm in the GR series cameras may give this one a run for its money. But we’re really picking some nits. This lens is as sharp as any old lens that I’ve shot.

Vignetting can be an issue, especially on a full-frame digital sensor like the one in my Sony a7II (which was used to shoot the digital sample photos in this article). It’s possible to correct this in Lightroom after the fact, or by stopping the lens down before we take the photo, but both of these represent a compromise (one in time, the other in light-gathering ability). While the vignetting is a bit of a nuisance, in fairness there are almost no 28mm lenses which do not vignette on a full-frame digital sensor when shot wide open. Compared to some Olympus, Minolta, and Nikon 28mm lenses that I’ve used in this same way, the Elmarit-R is actually a good performer.

Chromatic aberration is impressively controlled. Even shooting high-contrast scenes wide open, and even when examining areas of the frame which are far off center, color-fringing is held to an almost invisibly small margin. We’re talking less than a pixel here. Stop the aperture down just one stop and it disappears entirely. On film, you won’t see chromatic aberration at any aperture, in any shot.

Bokeh is fine for a 28mm lens. Out of focus elements are rendered nicely enough, but there’s very little drama at normal focusing distances. Highlight bokeh when stopped down is fine (obviously geometric, but there’s no harshness to it). We’ll get enough separation to make subjects pop, if that’s what we’re going for. But the only time the background is truly blurred to an unrecognizable smudge is when we’re at the minimum focus distance of 30 cm, and at that distance we’re going to be too close to most subjects. Bokeh is not what a 28mm lens is made for, after all. It’s a context lens. Use it to tell a story.

I’ve noticed no distortion, except at minimum focus distance. Just don’t shoot people’s faces from twelve inches away and you’ll do just fine.

If there’s any one area where the lens shows a clear flaw (or “character” – remember?) is in its flare control. Shooting into the sun or even with the sun glancing from a bias, we get images with incredible lens flare. Even with the lens hood attached and even when we stop down the aperture, this flare is unavoidable. Ghosting from point light sources is common.

There’s been some talk in places (from people more knowledgeable than I) that the flaring and ghosting commonly seen when using vintage lenses to expose digital sensors (specifically Sony’s full-frame camera sensors) is in fact a product of the sensor’s rather deep filter stack and not a “flaw” in the design of the lens. I’ll only mention this theory here and move on, as I’m not qualified to make a proclamation on this particular score. All I can say is that the Sony A7II that I bought from B&H Photo, mounted a lens to, and shot during sunset, created some pretty wild flares. (I should also add that I actually love the lens flares that this lens and camera combination produce – but your appreciation of the aesthetic may differ.)

Should You Buy One?

The big question – should you buy the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8? It’s a multi-variate question. Let’s try to fill in the variables. Do you own a Leica R mount camera? Do you want a wide-angle lens? Do you like the images I made with this lens? If the answer to at least two of those three questions is in the affirmative, you should buy your own Elmarit-R 28mm. It’s a great lens. And it costs a lot less today than when it was new!

However, if you’re someone who doesn’t own a Leica R mount camera, perhaps you’re someone who only shoots their vintage lenses mounted to a digital camera, the question is complicated by the existence of many other 28mm lenses which offer similar performance to the Elmarit at a lower price. There’s Nikon’s incredible Nikkor AI 28mm F/2.8 (a personal recommendation and a lens which Nikon still produces and sells brand new today), and Canon’s nFD 28mm F/2.8 (which is a real sleeper, at the moment). Either of these rather humble 28mm lenses offers excellent performance at a lower price compared with the Elmarit (sometimes half the cost). So if you’re shooting a camera that can easily adapt any or all of the above, why not choose the least pricey?

For me, someone who regularly shoots a Leica R5 and occasionally enjoys a big-honkin’ Leica R8, a Leica R-mount 28mm lens is a must-own lens. This is the best one I’ve found. The fact that it can be easily adapted to digital is just a bonus. What I love most about the Leica Elmarit-R 28mm F/2.8 is that anytime I have it mounted to any of my cameras, I know that I have an opportunity to make a photo that I’ll want to print, and frame, and look at for years. It helps me make some keepers, even with the imperfections and slightly elevated price.

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My second discovery is a little-known fact about lens design – a fact which, as far as I can tell, does not appear in any English-language book or on any website. The Tele-Elmar is a Sonnar design; a revolutionary lens formula invented in 1929 by Ludwig Bertele of Zeiss, and which has, since then, acquired a bit of a cult following.

My third discovery is a personal one. I always thought I wasn’t much of a telephoto person. I still don’t think I am, but lately I’ve been using this lens more than I normally do – partly for writing this review, and partly as a way to safely practice street photography in a time of physical distancing. And as I use it more and more I’m learning how to “see” with a medium-tele lens, and discovering more about what it can offer.

A Second Lens for My M3

My Leica M3, which I got at an estate auction, came with two lenses – a Leitz Summicron 50mm f/2 (version 1, 1956) and a Leitz Elmar 90mm f/4 (version 1, 1938). I love the Summicron and I intend never to sell it, but I never quite bonded with the Elmar.

The uncoated pre-war Elmar, though in good optical condition for its age, produced images with less contrast than I like. Besides, the 90mm focal length is a bit too close to 50mm. I dislike carrying gear, so if my second lens doesn’t offer something substantially different or exciting, the temptation is to leave it at home. I ended up selling the Elmar to someone who will hopefully use it more than I did.

For a while I flirted with the idea of a one-camera-one-lens approach with just the M3 and the Summicron 50. When you have what one writer described as “the finest photographic kit available to mankind,” it seems almost greedy to want more. The notion also appealed to my minimalist tastes. But on the other hand, my minimalism is in constant conflict with my interest in vintage cameras and lenses, and in this case the latter won out. Besides, I reasoned, I’m not getting the most out of an interchangeable-lens rangefinder if I don’t have lenses to interchange. Under this pretense, the quest for a new second lens had begun.

I may not have bonded with the Elmar 90, but it helped me figure out what I did want. I had three criteria – a longer focal length offering something more obviously different to the 50mm, a more contrasty rendering, and a reasonable price.

The first criterion helpfully narrowed the search to just one focal length. 135mm is the next step up from 90mm in the Leica M system, and focal lengths longer than 135mm can only be used with a Visoflex. Further research (by which I mean too much time on review websites, forum threads and eBay listings) revealed that the Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 also met my other two criteria regarding optical quality and price. 

Optical Quality

Before I talk about the lens itself, here’s a bit about the man who designed it – Dr Walter Mandler, one of the most revered lens designers of the 20^th century. Mandler was born in Germany in 1922, three years before the Leica I was introduced at the Leipzig Spring Fair, revolutionising photography forever. In his mid-twenties, as his friend recounts, Mandler was offered a sales position at Leitz. He turned it down and asked to work in the optical design department instead. His interviewers asked him if he knew anything about optics. “No,” he said, “but I want to learn.”

And learn he did, going on to design such classics as the Summilux 35mm f/1.4 (1961) and the Noctilux 50mm f/1 (1976). It is a mark of how good these lenses were that they both remained optically unchanged and in continuous production for over three decades, eventually being replaced by newer versions with aspherical glass, the use of which was not practical in Mandler’s day.

Likewise, the Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4, introduced in 1965, had a production run of 33 years – an eternity in lens-design terms. Consider what that means; the intervening decades saw unprecedented advances in computer-assisted design, exotic glass, aspherical and floating elements, multi-coating and apochromatic correction. The fact that in all this time, no optical updates were deemed necessary is a testament to the enduring quality of the original design.

The Tele-Elmar is certainly not as well-known as some of Mandler’s other creations, and has far fewer reviews on the internet. But the reviews that do exist are overwhelmingly positive. In The Leica Compendium, Leica historian and optics expert Erwin Puts wrote that with this lens “Leitz equalled and in some areas surpassed the Zeiss Sonnar 1:4/135mm, which had set the Olympian record for a lens of this specification.” Elsewhere he says that the Tele-Elmar design “reached the theoretical optimum” attainable in those days, and that its performance even by modern-day standards is “outstanding.” Likewise, Jonathan Eastland’s book describes the lens as “unsurpassed in its class for optical performance … still one of the best lenses in the entire Leica system.”

What does such performance look like? Even in my hands, it looks like this.

By the way, the photo above was taken on Ilford HP5+ which is a fast (400 ISO) film, and “scanned” at home with a DSLR. So the limiting factors are film grain and scan quality, rather than the resolution of the lens itself.

Lab tests confirm what the photographs show. The Tele-Elmar’s successor is the APO-Telyt 135mm f/3.4. Introduced in 1998 and still in production, it offers only marginally superior performance. Mandler’s design, even after all these years, is almost impossible to improve upon. A comparison of the MTF charts available on Marco Cavina’s website is telling. (I rendered the MTF charts based on technical literature; they are a close approximation and perfect accuracy is not guaranteed.)

If you’re unfamiliar with MTF charts, Lens Rentals has a good introduction. In short, higher lines are better; the theoretically perfect MTF response is a straight, horizontal line at 100%. In this case, for both lenses, the MTF for 10 lp/mm (red lines) which indicate overall contrast stay above 90% from the centre right up to the corners.

The MTF charts also show that in both lenses, the sagittal and tangential lines (solid and dotted lines) stay close together, indicating that the lenses are well-corrected for astigmatism and have smooth, pleasing bokeh.

It is only in the 40 lp/mm MTF (green lines), which indicates ability to resolve extremely fine detail, that the APO-Telyt has a slight edge in wide-open performance. But at this point we are truly splitting hairs. In fact, I would argue that in real-life scenarios, factors like critical focusing and minute camera shake would be more significant than the marginal gain in resolving power offered by the APO-Telyt. Even so, by f/5.6 the Tele-Elmar has almost caught up. By f/8 I would guess there is no meaningful difference. Crucially, with a price tag of over $4,000 the APO-Telyt is about 20 times more expensive than a used Tele-Elmar.

But we don’t need MTF charts to tell us that the Tele-Elmar has excellent contrast; we can just look at pictures. The example below shows a contact-sheet with two photos taken in quick succession with the Elmar 90 (which I sold) and the Tele-Elmar. The Tele-Elmar 135mm, as you can see, achieves greater contrast without sacrificing detail in the highlights or shadows. That’s my personal preference, though some people like the pre-war Elmar’s gentle rendering.

Price

Which brings me to my third criterion – price. At the time of writing, the most recent Tele-Elmar auctioned on eBay UK (small dent on the lens hood, but otherwise in seemingly good condition) sold for £127. I paid just a bit more for mine when I bought it two years ago. Such amounts may well net you a body and two primes in some other systems, but in the Leica M universe, the Tele-Elmar counts as a tremendous bargain – especially in light of its superb performance, which gives the expensive APO-Telyt a run for its money.

What about other alternatives? The Elmarit 135mm f/2.8 sells for about the same price as the Tele-Elmar, and the older Elmar 135mm f/4 and Hektor 135mm f/4.5 lenses can be even cheaper. I’ve not used these lenses myself, but reviews as well as the test data in Erwin Puts’ Leica Compendium suggest they are optically inferior to the Tele-Elmar (comparisons are also available on the Apotelyt website). Finally there are a couple of non-Leitz options – the Nikkor-Q.C 135mm f/4 and Canon Serenar 135mm f4. These came in Leica thread mount variants and can be used on M bodies with an appropriate adaptor. Unfortunately I’m not in a position to compare; I haven’t used these lenses myself, nor have I seen detailed reviews or technical data.

Size and Weight

Compactness is also important to me, and the Tele-Elmar happens to be smaller than the Elmarit, Elmar or Hektor. Unlike the other three, the Tele-Elmar is a “true” tele lens – that is, the distance from its front element to film plane is shorter than its focal length. 

That said, the lens is not particularly compact by rangefinder standards. It’s 112mm long and weighs in at 510g, which is not surprising as it’s all metal and glass. The APO-Telyt is slightly smaller and lighter, but as I said, far more expensive. Still, size is relative. The Tele-Elmar is diminutive compared to a 135mm full-frame DSLR lens. And it doesn’t feel particularly nose-heavy on my M3, perhaps because the body weighs slightly more than the lens.

Version History

The Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 with an optical design of 5 elements in 3 groups was introduced in 1965, replacing the Elmar 135mm f/4 (4 elements in 4 groups). For the next 33 years the Tele-Elmar went through some external changes, but it remained optically unchanged until it was replaced by the APO-Telyt 135mm f/3.4 in 1998.

Collectors distinguish between two versions of the Tele-Elmar, helpfully but unimaginatively called version 1 and version 2. My copy is a version 1 from 1965, the very first year of production. It is the rarer “red scale” version of which about 3,000 were made out of a total of over 28,000 Tele-Elmar lenses (versions 1 and 2 combined).

“Red scale” denotes a distance scale with feet marked in red; by the end of 1965 this was replaced by yellow markings. I have no special fascination for the red scale – in fact, I think the yellow scale is slightly easier to read – but red scale versions seem to fetch higher prices in auctions. I didn’t know this when I bought the lens, but luckily it was still quite cheap.

My copy has a knurled and scalloped focusing ring. This was replaced in 1970 by a ring which is knurled but not scalloped (fortunately, I am not yet at the stage where I care deeply about such things).

Version 2 introduced in 1992 saw more significant changes, though the optical formula, as I said, stayed the same. Among other things, it gained a built-in telescopic hood, a 46mm (instead of the earlier 39mm) filter size, and about 40g in additional weight. Version 2 is rarer and also commands significantly higher prices. I prefer version 1 because it is smaller and lighter, and the filter size matches that of my Summicron 50.

Visoflex Head

Version 1 has a removable lens head. To remove it, grip the aperture ring, turn it to f/4 and then continue turning firmly until the head unscrews (to reattach, repeat in reverse). The head was designed for use with the Visoflex, a mirror-and-pentaprism housing which can be inserted between a Leica lens and rangefinder body to convert it to an SLR. I have never used a Visoflex and nor do I intend to, but if you’re interested in going down this route, the Leica Wiki has more information on the Visoflex and other accessories.

In addition, the head has a 39mm Leica thread mount which can be mounted with adapters on a DSLR – an option that is not available with most other rangefinder lenses due to their short flange focal distance. Since many enlargers (including mine) have a 39mm thread mount, the head can also be used for darkroom printing.

Build Quality and Ergonomics  

The Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 is a lens from the tail-end of the rangefinder’s golden age. In 1965, SLRs were growing in popularity, but their dominance was not yet complete. Leica’s premier lens designer Walter Mandler was churning out timeless classics seemingly at his leisure. The Tele-Elmar’s construction reflects the precision, pride and obsessive attention to detail that we associate with Leica lenses from this period.

My version 1 lens is all metal and glass. It has a milled aperture ring with half-stop clicks from f/4 to f/22. There are 10 aperture blades for well-rounded out-of-focus highlights, and a beautifully finished friction-fit lens cap – metal with an inner lining of felt. The focus ring goes from 1.5 metres to infinity with a relatively long 180° throw, and there is an unusual depth-of-field scale in an inverted triangle. All markings are finely engraved and painted. I am not very good with adjectives, but liberally sprinkle words like smooth, precise and well-damped over the foregoing description and you will have the general idea.

In short, the Tele-Elmar is an optical and mechanical tour de force, at a price which is almost incredible by Leica standards.

The Sonnar Cult

My second discovery around the Tele-Elmar came after I had owned the lens for over a year. In October last year, my friend Bronwen and I went to an Extinction Rebellion action in London. She took several good photos with her grandfather’s Praktica SLR, but one stood out – a Red Rebel in full protest regalia (she kindly allowed me to reproduce it here). We all know that a good photo needs much more than a good lens, but the rendering of that image caught my eye. The lens she used was a Carl Zeiss Jena Sonnar 135mm f/3.5.

Sonnar is a name steeped in legend. Invented in 1929 by the optical genius Ludwig Bertele of Zeiss, the original Sonnar was a fast 50mm lens for 35mm cameras. Since then, many other Zeiss lenses in various focal lengths have been based on the Sonnar formula, which has also been associated with Hasselblad, Rollei, Linhof and other giants of 20^th century photography. Companies such as Nikon, Canon and Jupiter, have also made “Sonnar type” lenses, though they could not use the trademark.

The “normal Sonnar” eventually lost out in popularity to the Double-Gauss design, like that found in my Summicron 50 and in the vast majority of fast 50mm lenses. Nevertheless, the Sonnar still inspires a small but passionate following among rangefinder users; after all, the rangefinder itself is a bit of a cult compared to the more “mainstream” SLR. The Sonnar, you might say, is the Dvorak to the Double-Gauss’ Qwerty.

On the other hand, the Sonnar design quietly persisted in longer focal lengths, both for rangefinders (like the Nikkor PC 85mm f/2 made famous by David Duncan) and for SLRs (like my friend’s CZJ Sonnar 135mm, manufactured until the late 1980s).

Leica’s Secret Sonnar

Anyhow, after seeing the Red Rebel photo, I looked up the lens diagram for the CZJ Sonnar and immediately noticed that it was similar to my own 135mm, the Tele-Elmar. (I rendered the lens diagrams based on technical literature; they are a close approximation, but accuracy is not guaranteed.)

Looking at the two lens diagrams, the main difference is that the first (leftmost) element of the CZJ Sonnar becomes in the Tele-Elmar a two-element group. Beyond that, both lenses have a second group made up of a positive (converging) and an unusually thick negative (diverging) element. Next you have the aperture stop, and finally a positive meniscus element. In other words, the CZJ Sonnar is a 4/3 construction (that is, 4 elements in 3 groups) while the Tele-Elmar is a 5/3, but the similarities are stronger than the differences. This was intriguing. Was my Tele-Elmar in fact a Sonnar in disguise? Or was it disqualified from the Sonnar club by its two-element group, or some other subtle difference which had escaped my untrained eye?

In search of answers, I turned to Erwin Puts and Jonathan Eastland’s books on the Leica system. Unfortunately, comprehensive as they are, neither of them made any mention of a Leitz–Sonnar crossover lens. Next, I turned to the internet.

Deep into Google search results, I found a 2006 forum thread where one user noted that the Tele-Elmar is “very close” to the Hasselblad Sonnar 250mm f/5.6 (a lens which incidentally was used on Apollo 11 and other lunar missions). But the latter, like the CZJ Sonnar 135mm, is a 4/3 construction. But we all know how reliable forum threads are. I continued to dig deeper.

Finally, with much help from Google Translate, I found the confirmation I was seeking in a treatise by Italian optics expert Marco Cavina (and later also on a German website). Not only does Cavina confirm my suspicion that the Tele-Elmar is a tipo Sonnar, he also notes its close resemblance to the taking lens of the 1959 Tele Rolleiflex – a Zeiss Sonnar 135mm f/4 with 5 elements in 3 groups. In other words, just like the Tele-Elmar. (As before, I rendered the lens diagrams based on technical literature; they are a close approximation, but accuracy is not guaranteed.)

Incidentally, I have found very little information on the Tele Rollei taking lens; who designed it, how it performs, and whether it directly inspired Mandler’s Tele-Elmar. If you know anything about it, please let me know.

Cavina’s insight also offers a clue to the Tele-Elmar’s startling performance which I talked about earlier. What we have is essentially a medium-format lens designed for a 6×6 image circle, being used to make 35mm images. It is quite literally over-qualified. No wonder there is virtually no vignetting or distortion, not even wide open.

The Sonnar DNA is also surely responsible for the Tele-Elmar’s optical quality. I mentioned that the Double-Gauss design eventually became the industry standard for fast normal lenses. This was in part due to some of the inherent “flaws” in the Sonnar design (though fans would say the flaws are precisely what give Sonnars their unique character). However, in a medium-telephoto like the Tele-Elmar, many of these flaws fall away. For example, as Kats Ikeda explains, the Sonnar’s higher field aberrations have less of an effect at longer focal lengths. What’s more, the Sonnar’s advantages now come to the fore – compactness, pleasing bokeh and excellent correction of higher-order spherical aberration and coma (recall the Tele-Elmar’s sweet MTF graphs).

So this was my second discovery: the Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 is based on an optical formula by one of the greatest designers at Zeiss, modified by one of the greatest designers at Leica. And now fallen into my hands – what a comedown! But now that I have it, I fully intend to make the most of it. The lens renders beautifully in both black-and-white, as well as colour.

Distortion, Vignetting and Bokeh

The Apotelyt website reports that distortion (pincushion) is less than 1%, and vignetting, even wide open, is less than half a stop. In other words, these aberrations for all practical purposes are non-existent. In the gasholder photo below, straight lines look dead straight (I added a yellow guideline as a reference), and in the photo of the horse, or indeed the Dante statue above, the sky looks evenly illuminated. This is also borne out by Gerd Waloszek’s vignette tests with a digital Leica body (which often behave differently from film).

Sonnar lenses are famous for the quality of their bokeh – both the smoothness of the bokeh itself and the harmonious transition from the in-focus to out-of-focus areas – and the Tele-Elmar is no exception. This is in evidenced in several of my other photos too, but here are two which nicely illustrate both foreground and background bokeh.

In the first photo, both the near and the far wall of the cage are smoothly defocused and the bokeh is not “wiry” at all (even though it is literally wires, ha). The magnified detail from the second photo, taken at a climate change protest in Copenhagen, contains some clues as to why the bokeh looks so pleasant. The out-of-focus highlights look evenly illuminated, with no hint of the “soap-bubble effect” caused by over-corrected spherical aberration.

There’s also no hint of the elliptical “cat’s eye” effect caused by optical vignetting, and thanks to the 10 aperture blades the “bokeh balls” look circular (not polygonal) even though the photo was taken stopped down to f/5.6. (By the way, none of this is to suggest that some types of bokeh are objectively better. The Tele-Elmar satisfies the classical requirements for good bokeh, but lenses with “bad bokeh” – swirliness, soap bubble effects, and so on – can also be used to great effect.)

The Many Uses of a Medium-Tele

The quality of its bokeh makes the Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 a great choice for a portrait lens. Some photographers prefer portrait lenses in the 75-105mm range, but for me the Tele-Elmar 135 is the ideal complement to my Summicron 50, which I use when I want to include more of the subject environment.

A medium-tele is good for photos of animals, enabling me to shoot from further away (one of the cat photos got badly scratched when I was loading film into the developing tank, but I like it enough that I decided to share it anyway). For the same reason, the lens is also good for shooting sports and performances from the sidelines.

The one thing I didn’t use it much for is street photography, where I tend to rely mainly on a 28mm and a 50mm; I’ve never felt comfortable photographing people from afar. But I am in India during the lockdown, and when I go for my daily physically-distanced walk, I often carry the Tele-Elmar. The 135mm focal length, I’ve discovered, is perfect for head-and-shoulders portraits from 2 metres away, like the first photo of a car mechanic sitting outside his shop.

By using it more I’m also learning to “see” like a medium-tele lens – noticing small, everyday details which I might have otherwise missed. (“A camera is a tool for learning how to see without a camera,” as Dorothea Lange famously said.) I’ve never been much of a still-life photographer, but now with the lockdown and limited opportunities for human interaction, I’m exploring a form of “found photography”.

Downsides

So far, this review has been unrelentingly positive, but it’s only fair to note that the Tele-Elmar is not without some downsides.

First, I personally haven’t used it on any camera other than my Leica M3, but I understand that framing and composing with a 135mm lens on other Leica M cameras is inconvenient if not downright unfeasible (though one way around this is to use viewfinder magnifiers). Unlike an SLR, a rangefinder’s viewfinder typically does not “zoom in” when you mount a longer lens. The M3 has the highest finder magnification (0.91x) of all Leica M cameras, and even then, the 135mm framelines are quite small. In the photo below, taken through my M3 finder, the large rectangle is for 50mm, and the smaller rectangle in the middle is for 135mm. You can see that there is a bit of viewfinder blockage from the lens, but it does not impinge on the 135mm frame.

In other models, the 135mm framelines are even smaller; in fact, the M6 TTL 0.58 doesn’t have them at all. To be fair, this drawback, as well as the next, is a limitation of the rangefinder design itself and not this particular lens.

Second downside, focusing a longer lens is also difficult with a rangefinder. For example, at a distance of 15 metres with a 50mm lens at f/4 the total depth of field is over 44 metres. With a 135mm lens at f/4, depth of field is less than 3 metres – very little margin for error! And as we know, the rangefinder does not “zoom in”, so the subject appears small, which makes it even harder to focus.

In addition to having the highest magnification, the M3 also has the longest effective base length (62.33) of all Leica M cameras, which translates to higher focusing accuracy. Even so, and perhaps because I often shoot moving subjects, I miss focus more often than I do with my Summicron 50. But I’ve learned to adjust: if it’s a critical photo and I have the opportunity, I refocus and take a second shot. For the same reason, rangefinder calibration is also more critical – wider lenses are more forgiving of slight misadjustments.

Third downside, a maximum aperture of f/4 is relatively slow. Then again, the fastest 135mm rangefinder lens ever made, as far as I’m aware, is the Elmarit f/2.8, which is only one stop faster and significantly bulkier than the Tele-Elmar. If you’re interested in a faster lens primarily for bokeh, one stop for a tele lens is not that significant. For example, at a typical “portrait distance” of 2 metres, depth of field at f/2.8 and f/4 is not that different – 80 cm and 110 cm respectively. In any case, for me “quantity” of bokeh is less important than quality, and on that count the Tele-Elmar delivers in spades.

Of course, the traditional raison d’être for faster lenses is light-gathering ability. The rule of thumb is that lenses can be safely handheld at speeds faster than the reciprocal of their focal length (e.g. faster than 1/135 sec for the Tele-Elmar), though this depends on the camera, how much coffee you’ve drunk and various other factors. I don’t drink much coffee and the Leica M3 has a soft shutter and no mirror slap. The sandal photo I posted above was shot at 1/30 sec, handheld. One time I tried to photograph an artist restoring a painting at 1/8 sec, and it didn’t work out (see below). Then again, shooting Velvia 50 handheld in a dark church is just asking for trouble.

My last and perhaps least important criticism is that the Tele-Elmar is not, to my eyes, a particularly pretty lens – certainly not by Leica standards. My first-generation Summicron 50 is a jewel-like delight in chrome and glass which makes the Tele-Elmar look industrial by comparison. But when the Tele-Elmar makes such beautiful photos, do we really care? I actually do, just a little bit – but I’m shallow like that.

Final Thoughts

The Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 is an outstanding lens by one of the greatest designers at Leica, based on an optical formula by one of the greatest designers at Zeiss – a bit like Hendrix covering Dylan. Optically and mechanically the lens is near perfect. A Leica brochure from 1973 claims that “the maximum aperture is also the optimum aperture for resolving power, contrast transfer and colour correction.” If true, the Tele-Elmar represents that holy grail of optical design: a lens which cannot be improved by stopping down.

That said, the lens is not without drawbacks – mainly the relatively slow speed, and the general difficulty of framing and focusing tele lenses with a rangefinder. If you want a 135mm M-mount lens, and can adapt to or accept these limitations, the price makes it a no-brainer. The Tele-Elmar remains, as one reviewer put it, “one of the last true bargains of Leica optics”. It also makes me look like a better photographer than I am.

Get your own Leitz Tele-Elmar 135mm f/4 on eBay here

Browse the lenses at our shop, F Stop Cameras

[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.]

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I don’t have much insight into the development of the original Leicaflex (which predated the second-generation Leicaflex SL reviewed here), but it’s safe to say that the engineers (and not the accountants) were in charge. The result is pure Leica; a solidly built camera that does a few things perfectly and without compromise, rather than one which tries to be a camera that does everything for everyone. Though the result is a pure photographer’s camera, the tact was misguided from a business perspective. 

Leica’s entry into the SLR market was a decision borne of financial necessity. The rangefinder-oriented brand was facing an existential threat from the SLR camera, and Leica’s market share amongst photo-takers was being eaten up. Even up until the late 1960s the company was still banking on rangefinders, despite photographers moving increasingly toward SLR cameras offered by Japanese competitors Nikon and Canon. The Leicaflex failed to convert Leica’s rangefinder users to the SLR, and it failed to convert users of Japanese SLRs to the much more expensive Leica camera. Leica had simply misread the market. 

In another tangentially-related tragic misreading of the market, Leica spent twenty years patenting the first contrast-detect autofocus system, but didn’t see the value in it, selling the patent to Minolta, who developed it further for use in the Maxxum 7000 in 1985. That camera is now credited with ushering in the age of autofocus SLRs. It would seem that after all that R&D, including the development of  a working prototype based on the Leicaflex SL2, called the Correfot, Leica concluded that autofocus was not as precise as manual focusing, and that was that (for them). Forget that people might want it (which they did!). The company continued their dedication to manual focus with the Leica R series of SLRs that they produced in collaboration with Minolta, and right to the end of the line with the Leica produced R8 and R9, which ceased production in 2009.

But all of that is Leica history. And thankfully today, none of it has any bearing on whether or not the Leicaflex SL is a nice camera to own and shoot. Let’s get to that.

The Leicaflex SL is a beautiful camera, in my eyes. It has an industrial minimalist aesthetic, typical for its day, with just three elements of aluminum, black plastic, and bright nickel accents. The plastic is unfortunately slippery and feels quite cheap, especially on this camera, but it has maintained its sheen over the decades. The gently sloping camera back, resembling hunched shoulders, are a unique hallmark of the design that is echoed in the R8 and R9 cameras several generations later. 

The shutter sound is a silky, but deeply resonant ‘chink’ that sounds, in my imaginings, like a Hattori Hanzo sword reducing the samurai sword of one of the Crazy 88 to a stump. It is a perfectly dampened mirror clap, followed by a satisfying overtone that rings like that Hattori Hanzo freshly unsheathed. Take that, Japanese SLRs! When I walk by the Leicaflex on the shelf, I sometimes pick it up and fire off a few frames just to hear it sing. It’s one of my favourite all-time shutter sounds. 

If you’re looking for a durable vintage manual SLR that does only the essentials, but does them well, the SL may fit the bill; it is a robust, but minimally appointed, fully manual SLR with a wide-open aperture, center-weighted through the lens (TTL) light meter, a top shutter speed of 1/2000, and a big, bright viewfinder. Although it is similar, the original Leicaflex is largely passed over due to its external light meter’s small focusing zone, but that shouldn’t deter you. In fact, I think I might prefer that setup to the SL’s TTL meter, as I find it a bit tedious to use.

The viewfinder of all Leicaflex cameras are known for being big and bright, and the same is true for the Leicaflex SL. The camera’s viewfinder is the best part of the whole experience of shooting it. That said, when comparing it directly with the viewfinders of the Canon AE-1 or the Nikon F-801s (to pick two examples at hand), it’s hard to say that the Leicaflex SL viewfinder is any larger or brighter. What I can say is that it feels more immersive than the Canon, and on par with the Nikon, which is a similar sized camera with a much larger prism housing. 

This camera is auto-nothing, so shooting can be quite demanding, especially on new photographers. The Leicaflex SL uses ‘full aperture’, strictly center-weighted metering. The exposure needle swings to life whenever the film advance lever is pulled out from the camera. It’s a needle match system, with the motion of the arm tied to shutter speed while the exposure needle dances up and down with the light level coming through the lens (at aperture). Counterintuitively, the exposure needle travels down as the light increases and up as light decreases. No averaging is done, so any light outside of the circle does not register at all. What this means, especially in high contrast lighting, is that you might find yourself moving the central microprism focusing area around a scene to survey the dynamic range while constantly pressing the depth of field preview button for an accurate exposure reading. Conversely, you can try to cram the highs and lows into the circle to force an average reading.

When the mental and emotional toll of being constantly preoccupied by exposure becomes tiresome, I turn to the sunny 16 rule or meter off of a mid tone to get me in the zone, and then adjust by a stop or so as I see fit. This is a much more relaxed experience, but of course it’s not something you should try with an unforgiving film stock. I have put many consumer level color films, and black and white stock (Ilford HP5+ most recently) through the SL with great results, but have been very challenged with over-exposure when using slide film.

I purchased mine in 2001, and with the exception of an initial CLA it has been a zero maintenance camera that has been mechanically flawless. I’m not completely certain of the date, but what I am certain of is that it was the moment just before the film camera bubble burst. It cost $1000 CAD, with the shop owner throwing in a very well-worn Summicron 50mm as a sweetener. Fewer than ten years later, the SL was going for around $150 on eBay. It is, to date, the only camera I’ve ever lost a significant sum of money on. Now that we’ve established that I shouldn’t give investment advice (or perhaps that I have the business sense of Leica in the 1970s), the upshot to all of this is that I still own it because it’s worth more to me as a camera than the paltry sum it would fetch these days. This also means that anyone can own my once-upon-a-time dream camera for a similarly paltry sum!

Oh, and before I left the shop, the owner showed me a trick to lock up the mirror. He cocked the shutter, then with one flick of his finger over the top of the shutter button, almost as if he were skipping a stone, I heard the mirror slap into the ‘up’ position. He handed it to me for a try, and after a little practice I was able to execute the maneuver, the blacked out viewfinder being confirmation of my success. In my experience, after a few tries, it works every time! I still don’t know how this works, but it does.

[Sample shots in the galleries below were made with the Elmarit R 35mm, Summicron R 50mm, and Summicron R 90mm]

I highly recommend learning how the film advance feels with and without film loaded – knowing the difference could save you from seeing your exposure counter number climb past 36, as happened to me while (believing I was) putting a roll of HP5+ through the camera for this review. Take note: there is a more dampened feel when film is loaded; a slight resistance. When loading the film I am always careful to confirm that the film is advancing properly before closing the camera back (better to burn a few than lose 36), but in this case the film leader slipped out of the slim plastic tab that holds it on the spindle. Of course the grip of that one small tab makes all the difference in the successful operation of the camera. 

This camera may exude the qualities of a vintage Cadillac, but it’s definitely making me feel less comfortable than a plush backseat these days. My confidence is shaken as this is the 2nd time in 2 years this has happened, and the 4th time in the entire time I’ve owned the camera. I can almost describe the individual photos on those rolls because I am haunted by each and every one I’ve lost this way. Despite being mechanically durable, this one flaw makes it seem wholly unreliable. I’m already shopping for a Nikon F100. 

Now that I’ve tended to my wounded pride, I can say that once the sting subsides I will make up with the SL. I have already (properly) reloaded it with the traitorous roll of Ilford for when I am able to summon the will to replace those lost frames. When I do pick it up again, I know I will be in for just about as pure a photographic experience as one can have with a single lens reflex camera. The Leicaflex SL, like so many of the brand’s early SLRs, provides only the essentials; a great viewfinder, a beautiful shutter sound, and a solid chassis that can be mounted with some truly legendary Leica R mount glass. In the end, that’s about all that matters in a camera. Meter, shoot, advance, repeat – bliss.

Get your own Leicaflex SL on eBay here

Or find one at our camera shop F Stop Cameras

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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.]

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In the year prior to this incident, I had arranged a field trip to Gallery 44 in downtown Toronto for my Photography Club students to participate in a darkroom workshop. The workshop was an absolute hit. That’s not to say it was without challenges, though. The best part of any darkroom experience is seeing your images appear on photo paper in the developer, but the printing portion of the workshop was cut short for some students who had spent a large portion of the workshop struggling to load their exposed film onto reels and into developing tanks in total darkness.

Despite the setbacks, the workshop was a great success with the kids, who couldn’t wait to get back into a darkroom. That warmed me to the idea of having a darkroom at the school, and I began to ask for donations and to scour the internet for the necessary equipment.

In the process of looking for Paterson developing tanks I had the good fortune to stumble across the Rondinax 35 Daylight Developing Tank. The discovery of a tank that could be used outside of a darkroom or changing bag triggered the memory of those students who blindly struggled to load their film into developing tanks in the dark, and I decided right there and then that the Rondinax Tank was an essential piece of kit.

What is the Rondinax 35 Daylight Developing Tank

The Rondinax 35 Daylight Developing Tank is a 35mm film development tank that can be loaded and used in the light. This means that no part of the developing process must occur in darkness, as is the case with most other types of development tank, like the typical Paterson tank that almost every new film shooter will use today. 

The Rondinax was made by Agfa, and at different times was branded and marketed under other names. The one I bought is the Leitz Agfa Rondinax 35. They also made 120 medium format Rondinax tanks, though these are harder to find and more expensive. 

The Rondinax shares features with both a camera and a record player. Like a camera, it is a light-tight box, but instead of a shutter and aperture for an opening, it has a port for chemicals. Like a record player, it spins a disc, in this case a developing reel.

Like a camera, it has a mechanism for loading film, but instead of film moving to a take-up spool, it is fed onto a developing reel. A clamp affixed to a rubber strap is attached to the trimmed film leader, with the other end of the strap attached to the axle of the developing reel. A spin of the exterior dial turns the reel to wind the strap around the axle, which pulls the film from the canister (at this point the lid goes on the tank to protect the emulsion from light). The film is fed through a mechanism that lightly squeezes the film edges before they are unfurled into the grooves of the reel, moving from the center of the reel to the edge. Pretty clever.

A modern version of the Rondinax has been manufactured by Italian film specialist Ars-Imago, called the Ars-Imago Lab-Box. This device is essentially a modern take on the Rondinax, and it works just as well. The price, $180 USD, is about double what we pay for a vintage Rondinax. Buyers will need to weigh the cost of new materials, total price, and the value of history, and determine for themselves which is the more appealing device. 

Using the Rondinax 35 Daylight Developing Tank

Sometimes if I’m feeling especially bold I will fully embrace the daylight developing tank by developing film with it outside on a sunny day, for no other reason than because I can. Even though the Rondinax may allow you to stay in the light while developing, the film is still in the dark, so there are some thoughtful features to provide you with feedback about what is happening inside the tank. First and foremost, the whole process should be butter smooth, and if it isn’t you know you’ve had a mis-feed and should start again.

A truly helpful feature is the exposure gauge on the side of the tank. As previously mentioned, the film feeds into the grooves of the reel from the center to the outer edge, and as it does the feeding mechanism slowly raises like the arm on a turntable moving through a record (in reverse). When it comes to rest, an attached metal arrow, which is visible on the exterior of the tank, will indicate 12, 24, or 36 exposure marking, depending on the size of the roll. Once confirmed, you use the internal guillotine-style blade to cut the end of the roll, freeing the film from the canister, allowing it to move completely onto the reel. You definitely do not want to make the cut before we’ve in fact reached the end of the roll, which is why this feature is nice to have.

There is a built-in thermometer for determining the temperature of your chemicals. Mine doesn’t work, as far as I know, and this may be a common problem. I check the temperature before processing so I can set my timer anyway, so it’s not a big deal.

The Rondinax uses less chemicals than a Paterson tank. That has a lot to do with the tank being smaller and only capable of processing one roll at a time, but also because that relatively small tank need only be filled halfway; the reel is rotated by turning the external dial attached to the axle of the reel, cycling the emulsion through the pool of chemical that rests in the lower half of the tank. In fact, if the tank is filled above the midline, it is prone to leaking through the hole that connects the axle to the dial.

The tradeoff for economy comes in the form of elbow grease, or more accurately, carpal tunnel syndrome; the developing process requires constant agitation in order to ensure even development of the film, which adds up to about ten minutes of spinning per roll of film.

If processing several rolls of 135, the Rondinax might not be the most efficient choice compared to a large Paterson tank. The level of tedium involved in spinning a dial for that duration alone would be considerable. This is likely the driving force behind the ingenious solution I have seen online of rigging a small battery motor with a belt drive to spin the exterior dial automatically on your behalf.

That said, I have put many rolls through mine spread out over the course of a year, and despite some minor mishaps such as leaks, misfeeds, and the cutting of some rolls a few frames early, the relative ease and convenience compared to fumbling in the dark has been a noticeable and welcome change.

All of this is not to say that the Rondinax negates the need to engage in the learning curve of using Paterson tanks. This process is second nature to many, and mastery is certainly attainable for anyone, with practice. The Rondinax Daylight Developing Tank however, does not have the same degree of difficulty right off the bat, and that makes it a good entry-level training tool. This device is also a potential cost-saver and waste reducer, as it requires less chemical. Where its true strength lies is in developing single rolls. In this case its convenience is hard to beat, and that makes it a useful addition to a darkroom.

Browse for a Rondinax Tank on eBay

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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.]

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