Joining the Church of the Plaubel Makina 67.

There’s something beautifully tragic about film photographers. We are modern-day Don Quixotes, tilting at windmills made of 400 ISO grain and crying over the price of lab scans. Somewhere between our third thrifted cardigan and our seventh YouTube video on "The Best Cheap Medium Format Cameras (That Aren’t Cheap Anymore)," we crossed a line. We became believers. Devotees. Willing victims of the great, ongoing scam known as **The Analog Renaissance**.

Like any good cult, there are relics—holy objects—sacred artifacts passed down through generations of broke artists and hipster dads. One artifact stands at the center of this sweaty, slightly mold-scented pilgrimage: the Plaubel Makina 67.

A camera so legendary, so unnecessarily mythical, that it could only have been built in a fever dream of Japanese efficiency and German existential despair.

How It Begins: The First Temptation

It starts innocently. You’re just “doing a little research.” Maybe you’re browsing eBay. Maybe you’re three hours into a 2 AM YouTube spiral, watching someone named *AnalogAlex420* explain why “digital is dead.”

Then you see it: **a folding medium format rangefinder that looks like a Soviet Nintendo engineer designed it**. It’s ugly-beautiful, like a Brutalist parking garage. You’re intrigued. You read “Nikkor 80mm f/2.8,” and your rational brain politely packs its bags and leaves.

Next thing you know, you’re emailing a guy named “LensLord69,” offering him a kidney and your firstborn for a slightly scratched Makina “with original strap (rare!)”.

It’s all downhill from here.

A Design Inspired By Regret and Collapsible Furniture

Let’s be brutally honest: the Makina 67 looks like what would happen if IKEA made a battle camera. It’s a black, plastic slab with a giant lens slapped onto it, and it collapses with the grace of a drunk flamingo. You unfold it, and half the people around you duck, thinking a mechanical bat just deployed.

Yet somehow, this accordion of heartbreak still exudes a rugged charm. It’s the architectural photography version of buying a castle ruin and telling people it’s “full of character.”

Handling it is an experience best described as “wrestling with a very polite robot.” It’s fiddly and temperamental, and you’ll spend at least 12% of your time praying the bellows don’t pop like a poorly made soufflé.

The Lens: A Nikkor That Whispers Sweet Destruction

Let’s talk about that lens. **The Nikkor 80mm f/2.8** is the stuff of myth and fantasy. Sharp as a conspiracy theorist’s certainty, with the smooth, creamy bokeh of a dream you had after eating too much cheese.

You could shoot your thumb with this lens, which would look like a National Geographic feature. Landscapes? Haunting. Portraits? Tender. Street photography? Well, you’ll probably scare people by unfolding the Makina in public, but it’s pure, stupid, fantastic magic when you shoot.

This lens is the final nail in your financial coffin. It's the point of no return when you realize: *yes, I did spend the equivalent of a MacBook Pro on a camera that might collapse mid-shoot* — and you feel good about it.

Mechanical "Charm" (aka Daily Terror)

Operating the Makina 67 is a rich and varied emotional experience. Every time you advance the film, you wonder: *Is this the frame where it dies?*

The bellows are delicate. They *will* crack if you look at them too hard. The rangefinder is aligned at birth and immediately drifts into early retirement. The shutter sounds like someone snapping a tiny twig and often feels about as reliable.

Repair shops? Good luck. Servicing a Makina 67 is an ordeal that most technicians discuss in hushed tones, usually after a few stiff drinks. The last man who tried to CLA one reportedly fled into the woods, never to be seen again.

Owning a Makina 67 isn’t just a hobby. It’s a test of your resolve as a human being.

Portability, or “How I Gave Myself Scoliosis for Art”

Sure, the Makina folds flat—flat like a pancake—a **2.9-pound** (1.3 kg) pancake made of regret and black plastic.

In theory, it’s portable. In practice, the portable leaves deep red grooves across your shoulder and an aching sense of self-betrayal after a casual “short stroll” around town.

You will spend the first 20 minutes proudly slinging it around and the next two hours praying for death while desperately searching for a bench.

But hey, it fits in your trendy 3L sling bag! Alongside your dreams, a spare roll of Ektar and enough existential dread to power a French novel.

Shooting Experience: All Aboard the Struggle Bus

The Plaubel Makina 67 was built for a simpler time when men were men, and rangefinders had the focusing precision of a drunk sailor.

You focus using a coupled rangefinder patch that is so tiny and dim that it makes a Leica M2 seem high-tech. You advance the film with a giant wheel that feels like a leftover part from a Soviet tractor. Every click, every advance, every exposure feels like a minor miracle.

And yet – it’s addictive. The more frustrating it is, the more you love it. Like a terrible relationship, you can’t leave because the good days are *just that good*.

Final Judgment: To Sin or to Be Saved

Let’s face it: the Plaubel Makina 67 is dumb. **It’s overpriced, fragile, temperamental, impractical, heavy, outdated, and often terrifying to use.**

And it’s also one of the best photographic experiences you’ll ever have.

It teaches you patience. It forces you to slow down, to think, to savor. It rewards you with gigantic, breathtaking negatives that practically scream, “LOOK AT ME!” while you sheepishly admit you shot them at f/8 because you were too scared to open the lens wider.

The Makina 67 doesn’t just take pictures—it makes events out of them. Each frame becomes a story, a victory.

So yes, it’s stupid, expensive, and a nightmare.

And I adore it with the full, irrational passion of someone who has absolutely no financial business doing so.

Welcome to the Cult. Leave your wallet and sanity at the door.