Design review: the Lomography half-frame

Half-frames have always held a somewhat awkward position in the history of cameras. They were introduced in the 60s and popularised through to the 80s as an economical alternative to regular 35mm cameras. They allowed for twice as many shots per roll and could lead to interesting vertical compositions and diptychs. The half-frame gave us the Olympus PEN FT, an anomaly so wonderful that its value has only increased with age, but also the Yashica Samurai, to date the most bizarre SLR I’ve ever seen.

Let’s be honest, a half-frame is nobody’s first camera. Probably second, maybe third, perhaps even fourth. This was true in the past when film cameras were the norm, and it’s truer still in the digital age.

Long before the phone made it ubiquitous, the vertically aligned frame was thought of as the other. The photograph naturally mimicked the tendency of human vision. So, 35mm yielded wide for landscapes, medium format yielded squarish for portraiture, and vertical frames (especially made by splitting the surface area on an already smaller film format) were the experimental or austerity option. Of course, looking at the current landscape of photography, one could then make the argument that half-frame was simply ahead of its time; culturally premature.

But then the digital image happened. We don’t need to keep splitting our film anymore, and film cameras slowly turned into at worst collectables, or at best an exercise in nostalgia and aestheticism. Phone cameras are now the norm. Tiny sensors can produce images twice, thrice, four times as detailed as the 18×24mm surface area of film could.

Hardly anyone could’ve expected just how strong that nostalgia and aestheticism for film would be. So, the resurgent movement of film being used professionally, semi-professionally, and among Instagram-addicted hobbyists like me has opened up a space for Lomography’s new half-frame simple use reloadable to offer a unique combination of cultural aestheticism, amateur experimentation, and economic value.

Made from recycled plastic, the camera is small enough to fit in the palm of your hand as well as your pocket (on a loose enough pair of jeans). In terms of design, the camera is built to be foolproof, taking cues from disposables (except this one’s reloadable, yay) by having a shutter button, a flash button, an advance wheel and a rewind wheel.

To further help, the space on the backplate is used to print instructions on operating the camera, while the notches on either side used to remove the backplate and unload the film are covered with sticker labels warning users to rewind the film before removing the plate.

Mind you, it wasn’t the smoothest experience for me to work it regardless, but film cameras in general can be finicky (even the priciest Leicas can be a nightmare), so perhaps repeated use may make the flow of loading, unloading, advancing, and rewinding easier.

Coming to the specifics of how it shoots, the camera comes preloaded with either a roll of LomoChrome Classicolor 200 or Lady Grey 400, depending on which variant you buy, each allowing 40 shots. The lens is locked at a focal length of 21 mm and an aperture of f9, and there are no ISO adjustment options. The built-in flash is marginally more powerful than a smartphone’s, but the unique addition (if you buy the colour variant) is three coloured gel strips that can be rotated and stacked over the flash to create a few different splash effects across an image. Neat.

I was able to shoot a roll of Classicolor, and the coloured gels did indeed produce kitschy and surrealistic portraits (provided the subject was in ideal lighting and actively posing; thanks, Printworks camel). This feature will no doubt appeal greatly to intimate groups of partygoers, pub hoppers, moody celebrators, and memorymakers who prefer their rose-tint in tangible, photographic form.

However, what pleasantly surprised me was how much latitude the camera provided in taking pictures beyond the expected cultural parameters. The super-wide lens and the film’s heavy grain, no doubt intensified by a cropped usage area, allow for dramatic perspectives and impressionistic compositions of even the more mundane subjects.

The odd problem, I found, is in the slight miscalibration between the perceivable image through the viewfinder and the actual frame, which is a problem with most viewfinders to a degree, but this being a tiny camera doesn’t help. The image comes out wider than I anticipated, which is also why you may see my finger in many of the shots.

I imagine very few people are going to experiment with landscapes and tight frames, but I appreciate that there is room to attempt it, especially at a price that’s likely less than a week’s worth of groceries (the colour variant is £24.90 and the black & white is £21.90). Compare that with the price of old half-frames on the market or even new ones like the Kodak Ektar H35, and the Lomography half-frame’s appeal as a third or maybe even second camera becomes much more practical.

All photos developed and scanned at Come Through Lab.