For the first time in a long time, I find myself having a small existential crisis about photography.

Not photography itself. I still love photographing weddings every bit as much as I did twenty years ago.

It’s film.

Or, more specifically, the sudden resurgence of film photography at weddings.

If you’ve spent any time looking at wedding photographers over the past couple of years, you’ve probably noticed it too. Film has gone from being something only a handful of photographers quietly shot on the side to becoming one of the biggest talking points in the industry.

It seems that almost overnight, everyone is shooting film.

Some photographers are offering a roll or two as an add-on. Others are photographing entire weddings on medium format. Some have built their whole identity around it.

And I’ve found myself asking a question that I still don’t have a good answer to.

What is film actually bringing to the table that digital isn’t already delivering?

I don’t ask that to be provocative.

I’m genuinely curious.

Because here’s the thing.

I love film.

I grew up shooting it. Long before digital cameras became good enough for professional work, film was simply photography. It wasn’t a niche. It wasn’t fashionable. It was just what we all used.

So this isn’t coming from someone who has dismissed film.

Nor is it coming from someone trying to defend digital.

I’m somewhere in the middle.

And, if I’m honest, that’s becoming an increasingly lonely place to stand.

The pressure to pick a side

The internet loves certainty.

Film is better.

Digital is better.

Film is authentic.

Digital is soulless.

Film has character.

Digital is clinical.

None of those statements feel true to me.

At least, not in the absolute way they’re often presented.

Photography has always had trends. I’ve watched them come and go throughout my career.

When I started photographing weddings, everyone wanted perfectly posed images.

Then came the documentary movement.

Later, editorial photography arrived and suddenly couples wanted fashion-inspired portraits.

Now film seems to be enjoying its own renaissance.

Every one of those shifts brought something worthwhile.

Every one of them also attracted people who simply wanted to be part of whatever was fashionable at the time.

That’s human nature.

It doesn’t make the trend good or bad.

It just means we should probably ask ourselves why we’re embracing it.

A wedding that left me with more questions than answers

Recently, I photographed a wedding carrying both my digital cameras and a film camera.

Throughout the day I’d occasionally swap one for the other.

Sometimes I’d photograph exactly the same scene twice.

Once on digital.

Once on film.

By the end of the wedding I’d exposed three rolls of film.

Not loads.

Just enough to feel I’d given it a proper chance.

A few days later, after the film came back from the lab, I sat down expecting to have one of those moments photographers often talk about.

That feeling of…

“Ah, that’s why people shoot film.”

Except it never arrived.

Instead, I found myself looking at two versions of the same photographs.

One digital.

One film.

Some preferred the film.

Some preferred the digital.

Most simply felt… different.

Not necessarily better.

Just different.

And that left me wondering something I’d never really questioned before.

If I’m photographing the same moments in almost the same way, does it actually matter which camera I used?

Or am I confusing the medium with the photograph itself?

The uncomfortable question

This is the point where some photographers might already disagree with me.

That’s perfectly okay.

These aren’t conclusions.

They’re questions.

Because the more weddings I photograph, the less convinced I become that cameras are the thing couples remember.

Nobody has ever emailed me six months after their wedding and said,

“Shane, our favourite memory of the day is that you used Kodak Portra.”

They remember laughing with their grandparents.

They remember their dad crying during the speeches.

They remember seeing each other for the first time.

They remember how the photographs made them feel.

Not what captured them.

That doesn’t mean cameras don’t matter.

Of course they do.

The tools we use influence how we work.

But I’m wondering whether we’ve become so fascinated by the medium that we’ve forgotten to ask whether it’s changing the experience for the people we’re actually photographing.

And, for me, that’s always been the point.

Maybe I’ve Been Asking the Wrong Question

It took me a while to realise that perhaps I’d been asking the wrong question all along.

I’d been asking whether film produces better photographs.

Maybe I should have been asking whether film creates a better experience.

Because those are two completely different things.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised there are moments where film offers something genuinely special. Interestingly, very few of those moments have anything to do with grain, colour rendition or dynamic range.

They have everything to do in anticipation.

Waiting is part of the experience

One of the things digital photography has almost completely removed is waiting.

I photograph a wedding.

I copy the files.

I back them up.

I can look at every single image before I’ve even gone to bed.

It’s astonishing when you stop and think about it.

Twenty years ago, that would have seemed as if from science fiction.

And yet, because it’s become normal, I’ve probably stopped appreciating it.

Film forces you to slow down.

You finish the roll.

You send it away.

You wait.

Sometimes it’s only a week.

Sometimes it’s two.

Then, one morning, a package arrives.

Even after all these years, I still feel a little trace of excitement when that happens.

Inside that small cardboard envelope are photographs I’ve never seen before.

Not photographs I’ve forgotten.

Photographs I’ve literally never seen.

That feeling is surprisingly difficult to replicate in a digital world.

It’s a little bit like Christmas morning.

Not because film is magical.

Because uncertainty is.

The photographs already exist

There’s something else I’ve noticed.

When I shoot digitally, I often feel as though I’m making photographs.

When I shoot film, it feels more like the photographs already exist.

I just haven’t met them yet.

That probably sounds ridiculous.

But it’s the only way I can describe it.

The photographs are sitting inside that roll somewhere.

Finished.

Complete.

I’m simply waiting to be introduced to them.

Perhaps that’s why opening that package still feels exciting after all these years.

The most beautiful photographs I’ve ever looked at

If I had to choose one photographic experience that has stayed with me throughout my career, it wouldn’t actually involve wedding photography at all.

A few years ago, my brother-in-law got married in Dubrovnik.

I deliberately left my professional cameras at home.

Instead, I brought a little Contax T3 loaded with slide film.

The idea was simple.

I didn’t want to work.

I wanted to enjoy the wedding.

I wanted to make little observations.

Nothing more.

I came home with five rolls of slide film and, after they were processed, I started looking through them using the simplest little slide viewer.

Nothing sophisticated.

Just holding each transparency up to the light.

They were breathtaking.

Not because every photograph was perfect.

Far from it.

Some were ordinary.

Some weren’t particularly well composed.

But looking at a transparency illuminated by light is an entirely different experience from looking at a screen.

It’s difficult to explain if you’ve never done it.

The photograph almost seems to glow.

You’re not looking at an image.

You’re looking through it.

Even now, years later, I can still remember that feeling.

But here’s the interesting part

None of that actually proves film is better.

That’s the thing that keeps nagging away at me.

What made that experience so memorable?

Was it the fact that the image had been captured on film?

Or was it because I was holding something physical?

Because I had waited for it?

Because I was looking at light passing through a tiny piece of transparency instead of scrolling past another photograph on a phone?

Those aren’t the same thing.

And I think we often bundle them together.

Prints tell a similar story

The same thought crossed my mind recently when thinking about prints.

Not inexpensive prints from the local supermarket.

I’m talking about beautifully made fine art prints.

The kind printed on heavy Hahnemühle paper.

The sort of print you almost instinctively handle with two hands.

Imagine receiving ten photographs from your wedding.

Each one is carefully wrapped.

Protected by tissue paper.

You open the folder slowly.

You remove one print at a time.

You stand near a window because the light is better there.

You don’t flick through them in ten seconds.

You study them.

You notice details.

You linger.

That experience is wonderful.

I think it’s one of the nicest ways to enjoy photography.

But here’s the thing that keeps bringing me back to the same question.

Those prints don’t have to come from film.

They could just as easily begin life as a digital file.

So perhaps what we’re celebrating isn’t film at all.

Perhaps we’re celebrating photography becoming tangible again.

Have we confused analogue with meaningful?

I sometimes wonder whether the resurgence of film says less about cameras than it does about the way we consume photographs.

We live in a world where thousands of images pass through our phones every week.

Most disappear almost as quickly as they arrive.

Wedding photographs deserve better than that.

Whether they’re captured on film or digital almost feels secondary.

What matters is whether they’re experienced.

Really experienced.

Whether somebody sits with them.

Whether they look carefully.

Whether they return to them years later.

Whether they become part of family history instead of another folder in the cloud.

If film encourages that, then perhaps it has enormous value.

But maybe that value isn’t hidden in the negative.

Maybe it’s hidden in everything that surrounds it.

When Film Changes the Photographer, Not Just the Photograph

There’s one thought that kept coming back to me after that wedding.

Not about film itself.

About me.

Because perhaps the biggest difference between film and digital isn’t the photograph that comes out the other end.

Perhaps it’s the photographer holding the camera.

That feels like a much more interesting conversation.

Two cameras. One photograph.

I realised something slightly uncomfortable.

Most of the time, I wasn’t making a film photograph.

I was making a digital photograph…

…and then recreating it on film.

Same moment.

Same composition.

Same light.

Same timing.

Different camera.

When I looked back at them later, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I hadn’t really made two different photographs.

I’d simply recorded the same one twice.

And that made me wonder whether I was using film creatively at all.

Or whether I was simply proving to myself that I’d shot film.

They’re not the same thing.

Digital has quietly made us fearless

One thing digital has unquestionably done is remove almost all of the consequences of pressing the shutter.

That’s an extraordinary thing.

If I think a moment might develop…

I’ll take another frame.

And another.

If someone blinks…

No problem.

If I slightly mistime something…

There’s probably another frame half a second later.

Modern cameras are astonishing.

Eye autofocus.

Silent shutters.

Huge dynamic range.

Practically unlimited frames.

I wouldn’t swap those advantages.

They’ve made me a better wedding photographer.

They’ve allowed me to concentrate more on people and less on whether the camera is going to keep up.

But they may also have changed something else.

They’ve changed the way I think.

Scarcity changes behaviour

Film doesn’t just limit your photographs.

It changes your decision-making.

Every frame has a tiny cost attached to it.

Not enough that you’re afraid to shoot.

Just enough that you pause.

You begin asking yourself slightly different questions.

Not…

“Can I photograph this?”

But…

“Is this worth photographing?”

That’s a subtle difference.

But it changes everything.

The danger of making film precious

Ironically, I think I made another mistake.

I treated every frame as though it needed to be brilliant.

That’s a terrible way to photograph anything.

When every exposure feels valuable, perfectionism creeps in.

You begin protecting the film instead of using it.

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

For the perfect moment.

Except weddings don’t really work like that.

The perfect moment usually arrives while you’re still deciding whether to press the shutter.

The best documentary photographs rarely announce themselves.

They’re gone almost as quickly as they appear.

Which made me remember something from years ago.

The last six frames

Anyone who grew up shooting film probably remembers this.

You’d get to the end of a roll.

Maybe there were six frames left.

You desperately wanted to bring it to the lab.

So what did you do?

You photographed almost anything.

The dog.

The garden.

Your shoes.

The television.

Your mate pulling a ridiculous face.

Anything.

Not because it was important.

Because you wanted to finish the roll.

Strangely enough…

Some of those photographs ended up being favourites.

Not because they were masterpieces.

Because they were free.

You weren’t trying.

You weren’t impressing anybody.

You weren’t creating portfolio pieces.

You were simply photographing life.

Somewhere along the way, I think I forgot that.

Perhaps that’s how I should shoot film

After thinking about it for weeks, I realised something.

Maybe I’ve been approaching film completely the wrong way.

Maybe I shouldn’t be trying to recreate my digital photographs.

Maybe I shouldn’t even be trying to make beautiful photographs.

Maybe I should simply be curious again.

Load a roll.

Walk around.

Photograph whatever catches my eye.

No pressure.

No expectation.

No thought about Instagram.

No thought about whether it’ll end up on my website.

Just respond.

See something.

Photograph it.

Move on.

That feels much closer to why I fell in love with photography in the first place.

The freedom inside the limitation

It’s funny really.

People often describe film as restrictive.

Fewer frames.

Less flexibility.

Slower workflow.

More expensive.

And all of those things are true.

Yet somehow those very limitations can become strangely liberating.

Not because film is magical.

Because limitations force decisions.

And decisions often create style.

Maybe that’s where film earns its place

For the first time since I started questioning all of this, I began to feel I was getting somewhere.

Perhaps film doesn’t need to compete with digital.

Perhaps it shouldn’t.

Digital already does what it does extraordinarily well.

Fast.

Reliable.

Flexible.

Beautiful.

Trying to make film imitate that feels pointless.

But asking film to make me see differently…

Now that’s interesting.

Because then the value isn’t sitting inside the negative.

It’s happening long before the shutter is pressed.

It’s happening in the photographer.