LAS EXUDACIONES DE UNA CÁMARA SANTA

En 2009 rodé con película Kodachrome de Súper-8, cargada en cartuchos de Single-8, un viaje familiar a Tierra Santa. La mayor parte del material lo filmé con mi inseparable Fuji ZC1000N equipada con un anamórfico Iscorama, para la obtención del formato panorámico 2:1.

En primer término, la P2 Iscorama, y a su izquierda la Black y la Granangular, todas con obturador reducido a 150 grados

Pero en el interior del lugar de nacimiento de Jesús, en Belén el espacio era tan reducido que recurrí a una cámara mucho más pequeña, también diseñada por mi amigo Shigeo Mizukawa,  una Fuji P2, equipada con un diminuto anamórfico Isco de igual ratio que el Iscorama.

No se trata de la P2 que uso habitualmente desde hace años, a la que reduje el obturador de 220 grados a 150 para ganar definición en planos con movimiento, sino de otra P2 absolutamente original, a la que únicamente le había modificado la rosca de su objetivo para que el anamórfico, una vez colocado,  quedase en posición correcta. Conserva, eso sí, su obturador completo de 220 grados, lo que me permite ganar casi medio diafragma de luz, una bendición en interiores oscuros como aquel.

La P2 Iscorama con obturador de 150 grados, toma de mando a distancia fabricada por Mateu Bauzá y recordatorio de la tabla de profundidad de campo

Desde aquella filmación, en la estancia de la Natividad, esa cámara tiene un estatus especial. No exagero si digo que es, para mí, una auténtica reliquia: la cámara estuvo allí, en el lugar donde, según la tradición, nació aquel en quien se fundamenta buena parte de nuestra civilización humana. Por eso apenas la utilizo. Descansa junto a mis otras P2  (la negra, la de obturador reducido y la de gran angular), como una pieza singular dentro de la familia P2.

Pero, relataré a continuación lo extraordinario. Como ciertas reliquias veneradas a lo largo de la historia, esta cámara, estimado lector,  exuda.

Secreción de la exudación, en la P2 Iscorama de 220 grados

De su interior brota, de vez en cuando, una sustancia ligeramente viscosa. No es aceite común, ni grasa mecánica reconocible. Es algo así como una secreción misteriosa que aparece sin previo aviso. Lo más curioso es que ninguna de mis otras P2 hace lo mismo. Solo esta. Justo esta. La que estuvo en Belén.

Otras cámaras envejecen con achaques propios de su longeva edad: se endurecen las gomas, se secan los lubricantes o se oxidan los contactos:, pero esta P2 parece haber optado por un camino más místico.

Que conste que no afirmo nada, ni sugiero milagros. Tampoco es mi intención proponer canonizaciones técnicas. Pero los hechos son los hechos: es la única cámara de mi arsenal que “exuda”. ¿Será simplemente un lubricante antiguo que ha decidido reaparecer? ¿Podría ser una una goma interior que ha entrado en fase líquida? ¿O es, tal vez, ¡quién sabe!, un recuerdo inmaterial del Santo Lugar donde estuvo filmando?

Sea lo que sea, cada año la limpio con respeto y reverencia, recordando aquel momento en la gruta de la Natividad. Yo estoy convencido que las cámaras,  cuando han estado en ciertos lugares o ante determinadas personas, parecen adquirir personalidad propia. Esta Fuji P2 es la prueba.

REPARACIÓN DEL ELMO GS-1200 DE XENÓN. Guía a los fallos mas frecuentes.

En nuestro mundo del Súper-8 existe una especie de consenso popular, especialmente entre el entusiasta no particularmente exquisito (ese que nunca ha visto un Fumeo y los Beaulieu sólo los conoce de oidas), según el cual el Elmo GS-1200, y muy especialmente su versión con lámpara de xenón, sería el mejor proyector jamás construido para este formato. Para muchos, el auténtico Santo Grial.

Elmo GS1200 Xenon adaptado con brazos de largo metraje para mas de 900 metros

Confieso que nunca he compartido del todo ese entusiasmo. No porque el GS-1200 no tenga virtudes  (las tiene, y muy notables), sino porque se le ha otorgado un aura de perfección que, en la práctica, no siempre se sostiene. Es cierto que equipa algunos de los mejores objetivos jamás montados en un proyector de Súper-8 (la serie par: f/1.0, f/1.2 y f/1.4), y que su sonido es extraordinario, probablemente de lo mejor que ha dado el formato. En ese terreno, poco se le puede reprochar.

A un proyector delicado como este le gustan las manos de geisha.

Sin embargo, hay algo que para mí resulta difícil de perdonar en un proyector que se proclama “definitivo”: sin modificaciones, no es capaz de proyectar una película absolutamente inmaculada sin causarle algún tipo de deterioro. Y para quien concibe la proyección como un acto casi litúrgico, especialmente cuando se trata de positivos únicos u originales inversibles, ese detalle es vital.

GS1200 de xenon para una audiencia de 500 espectadores

Además, el GS-1200 tiene otro pequeño gran problema: cuando no falla de una cosa, falla de otra. Es una máquina brillante sobre el papel, pero caprichosa y compleja en la realidad. Por eso, en uso profesional, con o sin xenón, siempre he tenido clara una regla de oro: si proyectas con un Elmo GS1200, lleva dos. Porque tarde o temprano, uno decidirá tomarse un descanso ¡en medio de una sesión! Y eso es precisamente lo que ocurrió en esta ocasión, cuando en plena proyección, y sin previo aviso, explotaron no uno, sino dos condensadores.

Hay que reconocerle, eso sí, una virtud indiscutible: el GS-1200 de xenón es relativamente transportable. Pesa poco más que la versión estándar, y el rectificador está integrado en el propio aparato, lo que lo convierte en una opción atractiva para proyecciones itinerantes. Esa combinación de potencia lumínica y portabilidad explica, en parte, su fama.

Pero cuando llega el momento de repararlo, el encanto se desvanece. Reparar un Elmo GS-1200 no es tarea para neófitos. Menos mal que tengo a mano a mi amigo desde hace casi cinco décadas José Manuel, siempre listo para cualquier necesidad.  

A diferencia de los Fumeo (en los que todo está pensado para ser accesible, lógico y mantenible), en el Elmo hay que actuar casi como un cirujano a la hora de acceder a determinados componentes, que exige desmontajes complejos, manos de geisha, paciencia franciscana y una fe de cristiano en tierras de infieles. No fue, el GS1200,  una máquina pensada para ser reparada con facilidad, sino más bien para funcionar… hasta que deja de hacerlo. En el GS, cambiar una lámpara de xenón, que en un Fumeo es una operación que no lleva mas de unos minutos, exigen desmantelar media máquina.

Y aun así, casi medio siglo después, aquí seguimos, reparándolo, porque forma parte de la realidad del Súper-8: convivir con sus mitos, sus virtudes, sus defectos y sus pequeñas tragedias técnicas. Al fin y al cabo, amar este formato implica también ensuciarse las manos, cambiar condensadores, oler a electrónica vieja y aceptar que ninguna máquina, por legendaria que sea, está a salvo del paso del tiempo. Incluso el supuesto Santo Grial.

APÉNDICE TÉCNICO

FALLOS HABITUALES DEL ELMO GS-1200 (CON Y SIN XENÓN)

El Elmo GS-1200 es una máquina brillante en concepto, pero compleja a la hora de las reparaciones. Su sofisticación electrónica, muy avanzada para su época, es, paradójicamente, su talón de Aquiles y la causa de buena parte de sus problemas recurrentes medio siglo después. A diferencia de proyectores más “mecánicos” como los Fumeo, el GS-1200 depende en exceso de una electrónica densa, compacta y difícilmente accesible.

A continuación, enumero los fallos más habituales que aparecen en estas máquinas, especialmente en unidades no revisadas a fondo en las últimas décadas:

GS1200 xenon ya funcionando, tras la sustitución de dos condesadores

1. CONDENSADORES ELECTROLÍTICOS DEFECTUOSOS.

Es, con diferencia, el problema más común.

• Los condensadores originales japoneses envejecen mal.

• Pierden capacidad, se cortocircuitan o, directamente, explotan, como ocurrió en esta reparación.

• El fallo suele manifestarse de forma súbita, en plena proyección, con apagones, ruidos secos o pérdida total de funciones.

En la versión Xenón, el estrés térmico acelera este deterioro.

2. PLACAS ELECTRÓNICAS DE DIFÍCIL ACCESO.

A diferencia de los Fumeo, donde todo es visible y desmontable con lógica industrial, en el GS-1200:

• Las placas están apiladas y parcialmente ocultas.

• Para acceder a un solo componente, a veces hay que desmontar medio proyector.

• La reparación exige paciencia, método y manos de cirujana japonesa.

No es una máquina pensada para mantenimiento rápido en condiciones profesionales.

3. PROBLEMAS EN LA FUENTE DE ALIMENTACIÓN.

Especialmente en la versión Xenón:

• La fuente trabaja muy cerca de su límite (no como en los Fumeo, en que está sobredimensionada, como todos los componentes).

• Los picos de arranque y las altas temperaturas provocan fallos intermitentes.

• Un solo componente fuera de tolerancia puede afectar a todo el sistema.

Esto explica por qué, en uso profesional, siempre es imprescindible llevar dos GS-1200.

4. DESAJUSTES MECÁNICOS QUE DAÑAN LA PELÍCULA.

Este es uno de mis mayores reparos hacia el GS-1200:

• Sin modificaciones, no garantiza una proyección absolutamente inmaculada.

• El recorrido de película y ciertos puntos de contacto pueden generar rayas y otras marcas, algo inaceptable cuando se trabaja con originales o copias únicas.

No es un defecto grave para el aficionado ocasional, pero sí crítico en un contexto archivístico o profesional.

5. INTERRUPTORES, POTENCIÓMETROS Y CONTACTOS.

Otro clásico:

• Oxidación interna.

• Falsos contactos.

• Pérdidas intermitentes de sonido, velocidad o control.

Los componentes electrónicos de los Elmo nunca fueron de la misma calidad que los empleado por otros aparatos japoneses, como los Fujicascope. 

6. CALOR EXCESIVO (ESPECIALMENTE EN XENÓN).

Aunque el GS-1200 Xenón es admirablemente compacto:

• El calor interno es considerable, lo que acelera el envejecimiento de componentes.

• Obliga a una ventilación perfecta y a revisiones periódicas.

CONCLUSIÓN TÉCNICA.

El Elmo GS-1200, y muy especialmente su versión Xenón, es una máquina fascinante, con un sonido extraordinario y una óptica soberbia. Pero no es un proyector indulgente con el paso del tiempo.

Hoy, cualquier GS-1200 que no haya sido reconstruido, revisado y ajustado a fondo es una bomba de relojería electrónica.

Funciona… hasta que deja de hacerlo.

Y cuando falla, la reparación no es sencilla ni inmediata.

Por eso, aunque reconozco su lugar en la historia del Súper-8, para uso profesional,  sigo prefiriendo proyectores concebidos desde la mecánica, donde la lógica industrial, la accesibilidad y el respeto por la película pesan más que la electrónica espectacular, como los Fumeo.

El Elmo GS1200 Xenon es una máquina magnífica pero muy exigente y delicada, reveladora de una época en la que la ingeniería empezó a confiar demasiado en los circuitos.

REPAIRING THE ELMO GS-1200 XENON. A guide to its most frequent failures.

In the world of Super-8 there is a kind of popular consensus, especially among the less demanding enthusiast (the kind who has never seen a Fumeo in action and only knows Beaulieu by reputation), that the Elmo GS-1200 —and particularly its xenon-lamp version—. is the greatest projector ever built for the format.For many, it is nothing less than the Holy Grail.

The GS likes to females projectionists as Nena

I must confess that I have never fully shared this enthusiasm. Not because the GS-1200 lacks virtues —it certainly has them, and very significant ones—, but because it has been granted an aura of perfection that, in practice, does not always hold up. It is true that it accepts some of the finest lenses ever fitted to a Super-8 projector (the “number even” series: f/1.0, f/1.2 and f/1.4), and that its sound quality is extraordinary, probably among the very best the format has ever offered. In that respect, little can be criticised.

GS1200 Xenon for an audiencie of 500 people 

However, there is one aspect that I personally find hard to forgive in a projector often described as “definitive”: in its original, unmodified state, it is not capable of projecting a completely pristine print without causing some degree of wear or damage. And for those of us who regard projection as an almost liturgical act —especially when dealing with unique positives or reversal originals—, this detail is crucial. I also don't like that without modification it only accepts small rees of 360 meters (1200 feet), although mine are modified to accept big reels of more than 900 meters.

The GS-1200 also suffers from another small but persistent problem: when it is not failing in one area, it tends to fail in another. It is a brilliant machine on paper, but temperamental and complex in real life. This is why, in professional use, with or without xenon, I have always followed one golden rule: if you project with an Elmo GS-1200, bring two. Because sooner or later, one of them will decide to take a break —right in the middle of a screening. That is exactly what happened on this occasion, when, without warning and during a projection, not one but two capacitors exploded.

To be fair, it does have one undeniable advantage: the xenon GS-1200 is relatively portable. It weighs only slightly more than the standard version, and the rectifier is integrated into the projector itself. This combination of high light output and portability partly explains its enduring reputation, especially for travelling screenings.

But when the time comes to repair it, the charm quickly fades. Repairing an Elmo GS-1200 is not a task for beginners. Fortunately, I have at hand my friend José Manuel, for almost five decades now, always ready to help when needed.

Unlike Fumeo projectors —where everything is designed to be accessible, logical and service-friendly— working on an Elmo often requires the mindset of a surgeon. Accessing certain components involves complex disassembly, steady hands, almost monastic patience, and a leap of faith worthy of a missionary in hostile territory. The GS-1200 was not designed to be easily repaired, but rather to work… until it suddenly doesn’t.

And yet, almost half a century later, here we are, repairing it once again. Because that, too, is part of the Super-8 experience: living with its myths, its virtues, its flaws, and its small technical tragedies. Loving this format also means getting your hands dirty, replacing capacitors, breathing in the smell of ageing electronics, and accepting that no machine —however legendary— is immune to the passage of time. Not even a supposed Holy Grail.

GS1200 modification for big reels (more than 900 meters)

TECHNICAL APPENDIX.

COMMON FAILURES OF THE ELMO GS-1200 (WITH AND WITHOUT XENON.

The Elmo GS-1200 is a brilliant machine in concept, but a complex one when it comes to repairs. Its electronic sophistication —very advanced for its time— is, paradoxically, its Achilles’ heel and the source of many recurring problems half a century later. Unlike more mechanically oriented projectors such as the Fumeo, the GS-1200 relies heavily on dense, compact and difficult-to-access electronics.

Below are the most common faults encountered in these machines, especially in units that have not been thoroughly serviced in recent decades:

1. FAULTY ELECTROLYTIC CAPACITORS

By far the most common problem.

• The original Japanese capacitors age poorly.

• They lose capacity, short-circuit, or simply explode, as happened during this repair.

• Failure often occurs suddenly, during projection, causing blackouts, sharp noises, or total loss of functionality.

• In the xenon version, thermal stress accelerates this deterioration.

2. HARD-TO-ACCESS ELECTRONIC BOARDS.

Unlike Fumeo projectors, where everything is visible and logically laid out:

• The GS-1200’s boards are stacked and partially hidden.

• To reach a single component, it is sometimes necessary to dismantle half the projector.

• Repairs require patience, method, and surgeon-like hands.

This is not a machine designed for quick professional maintenance.

3. POWER SUPPLY ISSUES.

Especially in the xenon version:

• The power supply operates very close to its limits (unlike Fumeo units, where everything is generously over-engineered).

• Start-up surges and high temperatures cause intermittent failures.

• A single out-of-tolerance component can affect the entire system.

This explains why, in professional use, it is always essential to bring two GS-1200s.

4. MECHANICAL MISALIGNMENTS THAT DAMAGE FILM.

One of my main objections to the GS-1200:

• Without modification, it cannot guarantee absolutely damage-free projection.

• The film path and certain contact points can generate scratches or marks, unacceptable when working with originals or unique prints.

This may be tolerable for casual home use, but it is critical in archival or professional contexts.

5. SWITCHES, POTENTIOMETERS AND CONTACTS.

Another classic issue:

• Internal oxidation.

• Intermittent contacts.

• Sporadic loss of sound, speed control or other functions.

Elmo’s electronic components were never of the same quality as those used in other Japanese equipment, such as Fujicascope projectors.

6. EXCESSIVE HEAT (ESPECIALLY IN THE XENON VERSION).

Although admirably compact:

• Internal heat levels are high, accelerating component ageing.

• This demands perfect ventilation and regular inspections.

TECHNICAL CONCLUSION

The Elmo GS-1200 —and particularly its xenon version— is a fascinating machine, with superb sound and excellent optics. But it is not forgiving with age.

Today, any GS-1200 that has not been fully rebuilt, recapped and carefully adjusted is an electronic time bomb.

It works… until it doesn’t.

And when it fails, repair is neither simple nor immediate.

That is why, while I fully acknowledge its place in Super-8 history, I continue to prefer projectors conceived from a mechanical standpoint —where industrial logic, accessibility and respect for the film itself outweigh spectacular electronics— such as the Fumeo machines.

The Elmo GS-1200 Xenon is a magnificent but demanding and delicate projector, a revealing product of an era when engineering began to trust electronic circuitry just a little too much.

FUMEO 9613 DE 16 MM: UNA RESTAURACIÓN POR AMOR

A finales de los años ochenta vendí a un estudio de doblaje un Fumeo 9613 absolutamente descomunal. En aquella época, poco después de finalizar mi etapa universitaria en Barcelona, logré que Fumeo me nombrase su delegado en esta parte de España y conseguí instalaciones muy interesantes, en Galicia,  como un 9271 para la Casa de las Ciencias, un 94124 para la Fundación Barrié y, entre otros, dos 9345 de pedestal, respectivamente, para el Teatro Rosalía Castro y para una de las salas del Fórum Metropolitano. 

En cuanto a este 9613, no era un proyector cualquiera, sino una máquina muy especial, concebida para un uso profesional muy concreto: estudios de doblaje en los que la pantalla de proyección y la mesa de control de grabación se encontraban al mismo nivel, separadas, claro está, por un cristal.

Para responder a esa exigencia, el 9613 adopta una solución tan elegante como poco habitual: ambas bobinas se sitúan en el pedestal, con los ejes en planos distintos, permitiendo el uso de bobinas colosales de hasta 2.200 metros. En aquellos años, esas bobinas me las fabricaba Julio Castells, en Barcelona, y verlas girar en este monstruo italiano era todo un espectáculo mecánico.

Pero el Fumeo 9613 no se queda ahí. Entre sus virtudes técnicas se cuentan la marcha adelante y atrás, presores en las ruedas dentadas, amplificadores modulares, y una cabeza mecánica de abertura total, con mecánica desmodrómica, una exquisitez que garantiza suavidad, precisión y estabilidad incluso en las condiciones más exigentes, así como su fácil reconversión a Súper-16 (en menos de cinco minutos), o su adaptación para su uso como telecine.  Recuerdo perfectamente a Angelo Bianchi confesándome que, ni siquiera en Italia, le pedían lo que yo siempre proporcioné de serie a mis clientes: una cabeza mecánica de apertura total y ventanilla de formato variable (de esto carece el Fumeo de 16 mm que tiene la Xunta de Galicia en el CGAI, ahora Filmoteca de Galicia, pues el organismo autónomo siempre prefirió comprar a un precio mas caro a un proveedor de fuera de Galicia, antes que a uno local, sabe Dios por qué...).

Desgraciadamente, poco después de entregar el proyector a mis clientes, llegó la gran traición tecnológica: las distribuidoras dejaron de suministrar series a televisión en 16 mm, optando por el inferior y efímero Betacam. Ese Fumeo 9613 quedó relegado al silencio, condenado a pasar décadas en un trastero.

Hace unos pocos años, ya fallecido mi cliente, me lo ofrecieron como regalo, con una única condición: que fuese yo mismo a recogerlo. Como tantas otras veces, la vida y el exceso de proyectos hicieron que el proyector quedase también en mi estudio, esperando su momento, hasta que le llegó su hora.

He comenzado la restauración desmontando la cabeza mecánica, y el siguiente paso ha sido enfrentarse a la capa de roña acumulada durante décadas. Y aquí viene la sorpresa: con apenas una hora de trabajo, el resultado ha sido tan alentador que no puedo ocultar mi satisfacción. Bajo la suciedad, el 9613 sigue estando ahí, sólido, noble, esperando volver a la vida.

La restauración será lenta, sin prisas. Un proyecto para meses, abordado con una filosofía muy clara: que sea una labor de disfrute y relajación, no una obligación. El objetivo final es dejar este Fumeo 9613 lo más cercano posible a como salió de fábrica, con una única concesión al presente: la conversión del sistema de iluminación a LED. 

Algunas máquinas no se restauran por necesidad, ni por rentabilidad, sino por amor. Como este Fumeo 9613. 

MY WORKING ZC1000Ns

I´m currently reorganising the HAL9000 room in my professional Studio, a space dedicated not to nostalgia, but to tools that are still very much alive and working. The first step in this quiet reordering has been a simple but meaningful gesture: bringing together, on two shelves of a glass cabinet, the two Fujica ZC1000N cameras that I actively use for professional work, along with the accessories that truly belong to them.

Not everything I own, but everything I use.

At the heart of this small ecosystem are three ZC1000N camera bodies, one of them disassembled as spare. Each is paired with its original Fujinon optics: the legendary Fujinon EBC f/1.8 7.5–75 mm zoom, with macro capability at any focal length, and the equally remarkable Fujinon EBC f/1.8 5.5 mm ultra-wide, also with macro, a lens that still feels audacious today.

ZC1000N: a system camera by Shigeo Mizukawa

Around these originals gravitate the lenses and accessories that, over the years, have transformed the ZC1000N into something closer to a modular optical laboratory than a mere S8 camera.

Among them:

• Two Leitz Cinegon 10 mm lenses,

• One Leitz Cinegon paired with an Iscorama 36 anamorphic,

• A Pentax f/1.0 8–48 mm with Iscorama 42,

• An Iscorama 54 Multicoated,

• An uncoated Iscorama 54, kept precisely because it flares more,

• A Soviet grip (I use it when I have little space on helicopters or submarines),

• A Century 3.5 mm extreme wide-angle,

• Several large-diameter wide-angle converters specifically chosen to work with anamorphics,

• Original Fujifilm C-mount adapters to virtually every major photographic and cine lens system.

In Taylor Valley in Antarctica, at 77°37′S 163°00′E, at -35º Celsius. ZC1000N
is here with the Fujinon 5.5 mm and the Soviet grip for helicopter

Then come the devices that reveal the ZC1000’s true vocation as a camera built for serious film making:

• A manual Fujifilm hand-crank,

• Two slow-exposure devices,

• Three Fujifilm intervalometers,

• Two self-timers,

• Extension tubes,

• Eyepiece dioptre-correction Fujifilm lenses, pushing the original limits of the finder,

• A Fujifilm microscope adapter,

• A Fujifilm telescope adapter.

ZC1000N in the Antarctic

And then, the optics that defy expectations in a format often dismissed as “small”:

• A Schneider f/0.95, coupled with a Canon wide-angle converter,

• A Fujinon EBC ultra-macro, equivalent to 350 mm,

• A Fujinon EBC zoom matching the camera’s original zoom lens size, but functioning as an ultra-telephoto equivalent to 500–1000 mm,

• A Fujinon EBC ultra-tele zoom equivalent to 350–1800 mm,

• Another ultra-tele Fujinon EBC equivalent to 500–1300 mm, opening to f/3.8,

• And a remarkably lightweight ultra-tele Fujinon EBC, equivalent to 550–1400 mm.

Other accessories  (sound-sync devices, external battery compartments, and lenses of more occasional use, including a  super-tele equivalent to 6500 mm) remain stored in a separate room. They exist, but they are not part of the daily conversation.

This cabinet is not a display. It´s a working constellation.

Each item here has earned its place by being used, tested, repaired, combined, and trusted. Together, they form a reminder of what the Fujica ZC1000N, the camera system designed by my friend Shigeo Mizukuwa,  really is: not just the most advanced 8 mm type S camera ever built, but a platform conceived with an openness that still invites discovery half a century later.

More updates will follow.

Cine Assist, ICE model,  for sync sound in very low temperatures

MINETTE S5: IMPROVEMENTS TO AN UNDERRATED EDITING VIEWER

The Minette S5 is, without any doubt, one of the most unfairly underrated Super-8 editing viewers ever made. On the second-hand market it can still be found today for almost symbolic prices, yet anyone who takes the time to truly understand this machine will discover a genuine piece of engineering excellence—designed to last a lifetime and to deliver an image quality that remains unmatched.

Built entirely in metal, with no concessions to plastic or planned obsolescence, the Minette S5 is a machine that, with minimal care, can quite literally work forever. But if there is one feature that sets it apart from all other Super-8 viewers, it is the extraordinary quality of its optical system.

A UNIQUE VIEWER IN THE SUPER-8 WORLD.

The Minette S5 features a generously enlarged viewing area of approximately 108 × 144 mm, achieved through a massive, high-quality glass magnifier. This detail alone places it in a category of its own. It is, to my knowledge, the only Super-8 viewer that allows a truly reliable evaluation of focus.

Where other viewers merely suggest whether a shot might be slightly out of focus, the Minette makes it unmistakably clear. For the editor—and especially for the director working with their own footage—this precision is crucial. Judging focus accurately in Super-8 is no minor matter, and the Minette S5 makes it possible with confidence.

Another practical advantage is that, when the film is removed for splicing, there is no need to flip it over: the perforations remain on the same side as in the viewer, unlike many other designs. Special care was clearly taken with the film path itself: no matter how much handling occurs, the film is not scratched or marked—something particularly welcome today, when people arriving from the digital world tend to consider any scratch an unforgivable defect rather than part of a film’s life.

THE ONLY SUPER-8 VIEWER WITH A TRUE PRESSURE PLATE

There is, however, another decisive advantage that deserves special mention: the Minette S5 is the only Super-8 editing viewer equipped with a true pressure plate.

This feature becomes invaluable when inspecting Super-8 films that have spent half a century—or more—abandoned in attics, storage rooms or basements, often exposed to humidity and extreme temperature changes. Under such conditions, film bases may shrink, warp or lose dimensional stability. Conventional viewers, lacking a pressure plate, struggle to keep the film flat at the gate, making any serious evaluation unreliable.

The Minette S5, thanks to its pressure plate, holds the film firmly and evenly in position, restoring flatness and stability even with compromised or shrunken stock. This alone places it in a completely different league.

DOUBLE ROLLER SYSTEM: GENTLE BUT PRECISE FILM HANDLING

This advantage is reinforced by another distinctive feature: a dual system of entrance and exit rollers. These guide the film smoothly through the transport path, reducing mechanical stress and preventing further damage to fragile emulsions.

It is no coincidence that the Minette S5 was chosen by manufacturers of motorised flatbed editing tables, who integrated the Minette—without arms—directly into their machines. Its combination of optical precision, pressure plate and gentle roller system made it the ideal viewing core for professional motorised editing setups.

AN EXTRAORDINARY LEVEL OF FINISH

There is yet another detail worth highlighting, clearly visible in the photographs accompanying this article: the extraordinary quality of the Minette’s mechanical finish and alignment.

The image in the viewer is perfectly centred, with the frame sitting exactly where it should—no lateral displacement, no slight drift to one side or the other, as is common in many competing viewers. This level of precision is not accidental; it is the result of careful machining and rigorous assembly standards. When evaluating framing, composition and stability, this absolute centring makes a real difference.

MORE THAN ROUTINE MAINTENANCE

Recently, I carried out a necessary maintenance operation: cleaning the internal mirrors. In humid climates such as Galicia, this is a task that should be repeated every few years, as ambient moisture gradually forms a patina that reduces reflectivity, directly affecting brightness and contrast in the viewer.

Since the machine was already open, I decided to go a step further and introduce two simple yet highly effective improvements.

TWO KEY UPGRADES

First, I replaced the original lamp with a halogen bulb. The increase in brightness is nothing short of spectacular. The image gains clarity, contrast and visual comfort, especially during long editing sessions. The viewing experience becomes almost photographic, and eye fatigue is significantly reduced.

Second, with the help of my friend José Manuel I installed an independent light switch—a small modification, but an essential one. Not all films are polyester, and emulsions such as Agfa Scala can shrink severely if left under a hot lamp. A single moment of distraction can turn a valuable reel into something resembling a roast chicken. With a dedicated switch, control is absolute and the risk disappears.

CONCLUSION: A VIEWER FOR CONSERVATION AND ARCHIVAL WORK

With these modest interventions, the Minette S5 evolves from a very good viewer into an exceptional editing tool. It remains discreet, silent and robust, but is now brighter, safer and even more suitable for fragile archival material.

Once again, this proves that many of the finest machines of the photochemical era do not need to be reinvented—only understood, cared for and, when appropriate, respectfully improved. The Minette S5 is not merely an editing viewer; it is an instrument of preservation, designed to respect film as a physical object with history, memory and value.

Its only real limitation is that it does not accept reels longer than 120 metres. Longer works must therefore be assembled across multiple rolls—but this, rather than a flaw, is arguably a discipline we should never have abandoned.

In an age dominated by digital disposability, the Minette S5 stands as a quiet reminder that cinema was once built to last—and that, with the right tools, it still can.

WHEN CINEMA FIT IN A CARDBOARD BOX.

In Spain, the commercial distribution of Super-8 films, mainly in the form of abridged versions, or digests, came to an end during the 1982–1983 school year, just before Kodak introduced its fade-resistant LPP technology. A historical irony: precisely when the medium was about to become virtually eternal, the domestic market had already been condemned.

Lady Di's wedding, by Walton Films, which I had bought in England when I was a student, on the occasion of a trip with my sister Susana

This past weekend, taking advantage of this new stage in life, I separated those small films from that period (late 60´s and 70´s), acquired with so much effort and enthusiasm when I was a student, from later editions with complete feature films, positives struck in British, American or German laboratories, which I keep in another storage room. It was an almost liturgical gesture, like arranging memories by stages of life, a kind of sentimental Super-8 memoir of my childhood and of the years when we were happy with a seven minutes digest.

n my hands, a digest of Joe 90, by Gerry Anderson: my interests haven't changed since I was a child

While the bulk of my film archive in 16 mm and 35 mm is kept in the Studio (not by whim, but by sheer physical logic: a single 35 mm feature easily weighs over twenty kilos), Super-8 can live at home. Here, my very first digests purchased in childhood coexist with the last complete anamorphic features released by Derann Films, such as Master and Commander.

 

WHEN VIDEO DID NOT EXIST.

Decades before anyone could even dream of the Internet, DVD or Blu-Ray, when home video did not yet exist, photographic shops sold films in the form of digests: fragments lasting from three to twenty minutes that allowed people to own a film at home.

My favourite distributor was the American company Castle Films. I was about twelve years old when the Three Wise Men, during those magical Christmases of the early seventies, brought me a single, wonderful toy: a Cine Max projector, which I still keep in its original box. My mother bought it in the now-vanished Moya shop, opposite the Cine París, in La Coruña (Galicia, NW of Spain), for 1,500 pesetas of the time.

The Cine Max is still with me, after more than half a century, in its original box.

For months—winter after winter, before 1975—I watched again and again the few family films shot by my parents with an AGFA Double-8 camera they had bought in the early sixties from Machirant, a good Catalan friend who had decided to upgrade to a more advanced model. In those long winters, with no video and no alternatives, the only way to revisit cinema was through those silent digests, with subtitles, lasting between three and ten minutes.

Years later came sound digests—twenty, forty, sixty minutes long—and even complete feature films. But that is another story.

CASTLE FILMS.

Castle Films was one of the most important digest distributors in the world. Founded in 1918 by Eugene W. Castle, it began as a production company, but with the advent of 16 mm and later 8 mm it became the largest distributor of non-theatrical home cinema on the planet, in all its vast and boundless scope.

In 1945 it signed an agreement with Universal—a studio that would eventually acquire Castle Films in April 1977, renaming it Universal 8—which enabled the release of countless classics of horror, sci-fi, adventure, cartoons and documentary cinema.

When I was twelve or thirteen, around 1973, a ten-minute silent Super-8 digest cost just over six hundred pesetas. The first one I bought was The House of Frankenstein. The second, more modest but equally fascinating, was a three-minute black-and-white documentary titled African Animal Hunt, which cost 213 pesetas. I still display both titles in a glass cabinet in the studio, because with them began a vocation that—with its ups and downs—has allowed me to earn my living for decades… and to enjoy my job.

THANK YOU, ANTONIO DOCAMPO.

At this point I cannot fail to mention Antonio Docampo, one of the fathers of Galician cinema, unjustly sidelined by the miserable institutional chiringuito (López Chaves dixit) that governs the audiovisual destiny of the region. In his shop on Rúa Nova in La Coruña—where he always had even Kodak Pageant 16 mm projectors in stock—far from dismissing me for being a child, Antonio had the generosity to let me begin building a solid collection of Castle Films titles in their cheapest Standard-8 versions.

I did not care in the slightest: my Cine Max could project both Super-8 and Standard-8, and after all, the content and those wonderful boxes were identical.

Spanish magazine for Super-8 collectors, published nowdays

The best part was that Antonio sold me those 8 mm films for just 300 pesetas, payable in monthly payments of 50 pesetas. Thanks to him I was able to collect a remarkable collection of Castle Films classics, with those irresistibly designed boxes that I still enjoy contemplating today.

One of my favourite digests was Tarantula, by Jack Arnold, featuring a very young and then unknown Clint Eastwood in his first Hollywood role, as one of the pilots. Decades later, I had the good fortune to acquire the complete film in professional 16 mm, with magnetic Spanish soundtrack and optical English track.

Abridged version of "Star Wars" in 7 minutes in black and white, silent with subtitles and pan & scan

THE ORIGIN OF EVERYTHING.

The seed of the archive I now preserve—today comprising thousands of reels, mainly in 16 mm and 35 mm, at the Studio—was those modest 8mm Castle Films digests and the generosity of Antonio Docampo, who sold me genuine treasures at cost price and, on top of that, with payment facilities.

Shortly after the release of Star Wars, which I saw on the immense screen of the Cine Riazor projected in 70 mm with multichannel magnetic sound, Antonio Docampo  sold me a curiosity that today seems almost inconceivable: a seven- or eight-minute digest of Star Wars, black and white, silent with subtitles, and in pan & scan, meaning that only half of each anamorphic frame was projected in the academic ratio.

Esteve Riambau, when he was director of the Filmoteca de la Generalitat de Catalunya, described my studio as a "temple of cinema".

Today, when any film is just a tap away on a mobile phone, all this may seem absurd. But in 70´s we were happy with those lilliputian Super-8 reels.  Before video, before digital, before everything was instantaneous, when I was a child, these digests, often silent and imperfect, sold in photo shops, by allowing you to touch the frames and hold them up to the light, transmitted, from Super-8, the magic of real cinema (and instilled in many children a passion for film).

The latest Disney releases in Spain came from France

Perhaps because that small, incomplete, and technically imperfect cinema had something that has been lost today: the desire, the anticipation, the imagination that filled in what was missing.

That distribution system (70, 35 and 16 mm features for theaters, 9.5, 8 and Super-8 digests for home),  also ensured that movie theaters, even neighborhood theaters, revival theaters, parish theaters, or film clubs, were always full of people, with spectators entering a world of dreams, in theaters with giant screens, with uniformed ushers, velvet curtains, and a ceremony that was quite an event.

This English book studies that period of Super-8 as a commercial phenomenon