Silverbased

In a previous installment, I wrote about some vintage film cameras which have stood the test of time, earning the right to be called “classics.” The list included such iconic names as the Hasselblad 500C, the Rolleiflex, and the Leica M3.

Yet we must note another group of long-lived film cameras. Instead of classics, let’s call them… “the holdouts.” I’m speaking of models whose success came mainly because of affordable cost, rather than any special excellence. Yet even as changing technology left them behind, some of these models enjoyed paradoxically long production runs.

And a certain odd fondness for these models can persist—or even perversely increase—today decades later.

The Brick

The ultimate example of this group might be the Argus C3, first introduced in 1939.

In the 1930s, the Leica and Contax generated a great mystique around precision 35mm rangefinders. But their prices were wildly out of reach for the average hobbyist. And then the Argus C-series appeared, offering a modest subset of the same features, in a sturdy and reasonably reliable package—yet at a dramatically lower price.

Creative commons image from Flickr user pointnshoot

A surprising influence on camera choice in those days was that Kodachrome color film was available in 135 format, but not in larger roll-film sizes. Thus, demand for some affordable, adjustable 35mm model was immense. When it was all over, C3 sales ran into the millions.

In turn, popular entry-level 35’s (like those from Argus) assured a mass demand for 135-packaged film, in a way that an elite handful of Leica & Contax purchasers could not.

As a native of Ann Arbor, Michigan (where Argus was founded), I should probably show more home-town loyalty for the ungainly old Brick. But let’s be honest: The C3 was never a great camera. The shutter-speed range was limited (and got smaller, not larger, in later versions); its shutter cocking arm uncoupled from the film advance was prone to error; and its separate rangefinder eyepiece inconvenient.

Rangefinder alignment could be unreliable too; and switching to a different lens than the basic 50mm Cintar triplet was barely practical, requiring unwieldy disassembly.

By the time World War Two ended, the C3 design was already dated, and Argus knew it. They attempted to revamp their lineup with the “Markfinder” 21, featuring a streamlined body which soon evolved into the C-4 and C-44. Despite those models’ dramatically-improved viewfinders, sales never caught up with the cheaper (and still manufactured) C3s, which stayed in production all the way until 1966.

I’ve always suspected a certain psychological basis for the C3’s longevity: Its boxy, geared appearance gave gave a generation of men (probably Popular Mechanics readers) a feeling of pride at mastering what certainly appeared to be highly complex technology. In comparison, perhaps the smaller and less alarming-looking C-4 made photography look too easy.

But by the end of the 1950s, the glaring discrepancies between a C3 and the many cheaper, better-featured Japanese brands only hastened the collapse of the Argus company.

The Everyman’s TLR

Another curious “holdout” is the the long-running Yashica Mat series.

Germany’s Rollei has always defined the standard for twin-lens reflex cameras. But in the late 1950s, an automatic crank-advance Rolleiflex featuring a 4-element Tessar lens commanded a US list price of about $200. (That equates to about $1500 today.) But by that time, crank winding and a Tessar-copy lens were also offered on several premium Japanese TLRs. This included Minolta and Ricoh models listing for about $100, or Kowa’s “Kalloflex” costing $120.

But in 1957, Yashica (whose previous TLRs had all been inexpensive knob-wind models) matched the same feature set with its new Yashica Mat—at an aggressive price point of only $75. Sales took off, and never stopped.

Late Yashica Mat 124G. Creative commons image from Flickr user Ian Tindale

The ‘Mat design lacked some of the finish and solidity of its rivals; and in particular the winding mechanism could fail under rough use. Certainly the detail its 4-element lens could pack into a 6×6 frame was impressive compared to 35mm format. But the Yashinon lens quality could be variable—some samples showed an edge softness which failed to live up to the potential of the Tessar formula. (It originated in the same Tomioka optics shop which gave the world the much-mocked “Tri-Lausar” design.)

By the middle 1960s, it was clear that 35mm film and eye-level viewing would dominate future amateur camera sales. So most Japanese firms who built TLRs dropped them from their lineups—except for Yashica. (Another exception was Mamiya, with their interchangeable-lens, pro-oriented C series.) After some early selenium-cell models, by the 1960s the ‘Mat had acquired a CdS light meter. And then—astonishingly—production marched onwards all the way to 1986, with only minor changes in the basic design.

When a camera model becomes a hit (like the C3 or the Yashica Mat), its maker can spread tooling costs over more units—a simple economy of scale. This can sway a company into extending the life of a still-profitable older model. And so, a once-booming segment of Japanese camera manufacture dwindled to its final remnant in the Yashica Mat, whose optics and metering remained stuck in the 1960s.

It would be hard to argue that the Yashica Mat was Japan’s finest TLR. (I might make that claim for the Minolta Autocord; and I’m sure the Ricoh and Kowa models have their partisans too.) So the enduring renown of the Yashica Mat is a bit of a puzzle—as are the inflated prices that the final 124G version sometimes fetch today. Instead, it is the sheer number sold and their workmanlike service record which earned the model its fame.

The Iconic “Student” SLR

The Pentax K1000 was introduced in 1976. Blissfully ignoring industry shifts towards autofocus and microelectronics, it stayed in production until 1997. In fact, aside from its K bayonet lens mount, the camera was little altered from Pentax’s 1960s Spotmatic series.

Creative commons image from Flickr user John Kratz

Now, in some circles, it would be heresy to say anything negative about the K1000. Its fans praise its all-mechanical reliability, design simplicity, and beginner-friendliness. But the mystery is why this fondness endures today, when other fuller-featured cameras sell for lower prices on the used market.

In the mid-1970s, the appearance of the Olympus OM-1 dramatically shook up the Japanese camera industry—re-writing the rules for what camera consumers expected. Like other manufacturers, Pentax moved to redesign its SLRs, revamping their K-mount offerings with a new, compact M series. Within this lineup, the MX filled the niche of their mechanical- shutter, manual-exposure model.

Pentax MX (with special pancake lens) versus K100. Creative commons image from Flickr user slimmer jimmer

So compared to the K1000, what additional features did Pentax themselves feel ought to be included in such a camera? Well, shield your eyes, K1000 lovers—the list is long…

• Smaller, lighter body (the K1000 began its production run at 620 grams; it lost weight over the decades as Pentax substituted plastic parts for metal ones, but never matched the MX’s svelte 495g.)
• Gallium photodiode metering—more sensitive and faster-responding than the CdS cell used in the K1000. (The MX specs claimed metering down to 1 second at f/1.4 with 100-speed film.)
• Larger, more accurate viewfinder image
• 5-LED meter display including exact -1/+1 stop indicators
• Shutter speed indicator in viewfinder; also a peep-sight showing selected f/stop on lens aperture ring
• Depth-of-field preview
• Self timer
• Option to attach power winders
• User-interchangeable focus screens
• Shutter release lock

…and perhaps even some others I’ve missed?

Less is More—Unless it’s Less

For all these beloved econo-cams, we must praise the positive. When new, each opened doors for aspiring photographers at an attainable price. Their spartan feature-set helped focus the beginner on learning the essentials—exposure and composition—rather than fiddling with gadgets. And all gave surprisingly reliable performance, considering their low price levels.

But past a certain point, a strange feedback loop comes into play. Large sales meant widespread familiarity with particular models—and perhaps some rose-tinted nostalgia from those who got their start learning on one.

Veteran photographers and photo instructors began to insist that their protegés also start with a spartan, all-manual camera, at a time when the available choices in the marketplace had dwindled down to a handful. So their production runs dragged on even further. And perhaps the former students became professionals and teachers themselves, repeating the cycle all over again.

Today, no K1000’s or Yashica Mats are available new. Film shooters mostly buy from the same pool of used cameras showing up on eBay.

Yet the oddity is that name recognition and familiarity with those classic econo-cams keeps their prices firm even now, relative to other models offering more features. (Admittedly, prices for an Argus brick remain low—as they should be—perhaps because the “C-3 generation” is passing from the scene.)

I noted in my last post that Japan’s Cosina company had spent decades manufacturing basic, entry-level SLRs—essentially the peers of the K1000—usually even featuring the same K bayonet mount. Yet they were sold under a bewildering roster of different brand names; so there’s no popular recognition of any one model.

But Cosina continued to evolve its SLR platform, until even these inexpensive models featured 1/2000 sec. top shutter speeds, 1/125 sec. flash sync, sensitive silicon meter cells, and other amenities common to 1980s camera designs—but missing from the K1000.

These “other K1000’s” go all but unrecognized, under such obscure designations as the Ricoh KR-5 Super II, Chinon CM-7, or Yashica FX-3 Super 2000. Gee, you even get a self-timer! But eBay auctions for these unknowns often pass with little interest and few bidders. (In fact, under the Vivitar moniker, you can even buy a brand new one for all of $140.)

A local Flickr pal and two-fisted defender of the K1000

Yet I doubt any of this will sway the die-hard fans of the K1000. Remember, the (original) Volkswagen Beetle remained in production well past the point that its engine and suspension had become engineering anachronisms; in fact the bug became an iconic brand. And just as nostalgia for the old Beetle spawned a 1999 revival, cult reverence for the K1000 caused Pentax to re-brand their (previously unpronounceable) digital SLRs with new models dubbed K10D and K100D.

And there’s more to camera choice than steely rationality (as any regular reader of this blog should find obvious!) So for those who find their no-frills Yashica Mats or K1000’s the right tools to unlock their creative energies—by all means enjoy them.

A photographer could lead a long and happy life never using filters at all. But eventually, many of us find we need a bit of color correction when shooting slide film, or want to try a red filter to give more drama to sky and clouds when shooting B&W.

Nowadays when you shop for filters and other lens accessories, it’s universal for their sizes to be listed in millimeters—reflecting the influence of metric-speaking Japanese and German optics manufacturers.

Yet if you flip through 50-year-old photo magazines, or root through the odd-parts bins at a vintage camera sale, you’ll start seeing accessories cryptically labeled Series V, Series VI, Series VII, etc. What are these weird sizes, and are they good for anything?

A Series filter has three parts: An adapter to fit the lens; a standard filter disk; and a retaining ring

“Series” adapters were the most common American system for lens accessories in the middle decades of the 20th century. And they were actually a very cool, totally modular way of doing things. My googling has not turned up much history about Series accessories. So I’ll share the information I’ve been able to put together—but I’d be grateful to hear from anyone who can steer me towards a definitive source.

My suspicion is that (as with many other photographic standards) it was Eastman Kodak who established the Series system. In any event, Kodak became a major supplier of Series filters and accessories.

The idea of the system was this: Colored filters, close-up lenses, etc., were manufactured in a few standard diameters—as “drop-in” disks, without threads. You chose the Series that would cover your largest diameter lens. Then, a multitude of different adapter rings were available, sized to fit all your various cameras and lenses.

Each particular Series had one standard-sized retaining ring, to hold the filter disk into the adapter. Some retaining rings had both male and female threads, allowing you to stack additional filters. Conveniently, the retaining ring could also be replaced with a lens shade having the same standard Series thread.

Mixing and matching modular parts. At right, a Series-threaded lens shade; can also be used without a filter

A few manufacturers put threads on their lens barrels that were “natively” standard Series sizes—thus no adapter was needed, just the retaining ring. Several Argus, Kodak and rangefinder Canon lenses adopted this system (and no doubt other brands I haven’t come across yet).

The dimensions of the system were specified in inches, not millimeters (this may resolve some mysteries you have with weird unidentified lens or filter threads). The different Series sizes were designated with roman numerals, and ranged from quite tiny (e.g. for cine lenses) up to moderately large. But Series V, VI, and VII seem to be the most common (and useful) sizes.

I measure their dimensions as:

Series V — filters 1-3/16″ (~30mm) — retaining thread 1-1/4″ (~32mm)
Series VI — filters 1-5/8″ (~41mm) — retaining thread 1-3/4″ (~44mm)
Series VII — filters 2″ (~51mm) — retaining thread 2-1/8″ (~54mm)

Series adapters to fit different lenses: TLR-style bayonet mount, unthreaded push-on, and threaded styles

Colored filters in Series sizes were available from many manufacturers—both names that will be familiar (like Tiffen) to others that faded away decades ago (like Omag). Some useful black and white filters might be found under unfamiliar, older color designations, such as deep red (formerly designated “A” but now #25), green (formerly G, now #13), and yellow (K2, now #8, or X1, now #11).

Kodak sold “Portra” close-up lenses in the common Series sizes, in strengths of +1, +2, and +3 diopters; but with non-reflex cameras you need a table of corrections to find the distance for proper focus. It’s nicest to get Porta lenses together with their original yellow Kodak containers, which include the table as a handy decal inside the lid.

Among the other Series oddities you sometimes see are Kodak’s “Telek” attachments: These were lenses with negative diopter powers. While it’s a bit non-intuitive, adding one in front of a lens and then racking its focus outwards has the effect of lengthening its effective focal length—yielding a quick & dirty telephoto lens. (The strongest -4 Telek can almost double the focal length). Unfortunately these are really only practical for cameras offering groundglass focusing, e.g. a Press camera.

Now, for most of my photographic youth, I used Japanese SLR systems, whose manufacturers tried to stick with a single filter diameter across most of their lens lines. For Olympus, it was 49mm; for Canon, 55mm. You just bought a couple of filters in the right size, and were done with it.

But, as my fascination with vintage cameras grew, somehow more and more of them began appearing in my home. And I had a problem—it seemed that each one used a different filter size!

But this is exactly the situation where the Series system shines. A friend had inherited a garage-ful of assorted series adapters and accessories; and by sifting through his heap, I was able to find adapters for about nine of my favorite vintage camera lenses—allowing me to use a single set of Series VI filters for everything.

Okay, I admit you could approximate the same thing today with one set of (oversized) threaded filters plus an arsenal of different step-up rings. But another advantage of the Series system is that many “slip-on” adapters were sold—making it possible to use accessories even on lenses that have no filter threads. (Or, ones with damaged threads, or impossible-to-find sizes… ) One Kodak 42mm push-on adapter turns out to be a perfect fit on vintage Diana cameras.

Slip-on Series adapters let you use filters with threadless oddball cameras

Admittedly, one place where this clever scheme falls apart is with polarizing filters. A polarizer needs to be rotated to a particular angle to be most effective, something that wasn’t practical with the Series drop-in disks. (In fact, there were clever threaded polarizing attachments manufactured for the Series system—you looked through a separate auxiliary polarizer while rotating a control handle—but it may be tough finding one today.)

It’s been decades since Series accessories were being widely produced. Yet if you dig around on eBay you will still find sellers offering series adapter rings and drop-in filters. (Note that some listings use Series 6, Series 7, etc., instead of the roman numerals.) Also, some specialist mail-order firms may be able to help.

If you need to track down every little odd Series filter component one at a time, the process might not be worth the effort. But if someday you’re as lucky as I was, and stumble onto some vast forgotten cache of Series accessories, just remember—it’s a neat system that’s still completely useful today.