Why Film Photography Is Objectively Worse—and Why That Makes It Subjectively Better

If we’re being brutally honest, film photography is worse than digital. Objectively speaking. Technically, measurably, embarrassingly worse. The resolution is lower. The grain is coarser. The dynamic range is laughable compared to modern sensors. It's wildly expensive, environmentally questionable, and the workflow is slower than your nan on dial-up.

And yet—here we are. Still loading rolls. Still paying £17 for Portra and another tenner to get it developed. Still waiting a week for scans that look like they were emailed from 2002. Still in love with it. Why?

Because photography isn't just about the image. It's about the process. And film feels better. Somehow.

The Tyranny of Perfection

Digital photography is perfect in the way supermarket tomatoes are perfect—visually flawless, genetically optimised, and entirely devoid of flavour. Every exposure is a blank cheque. Every mistake can be erased with a flick of the preview button. You can fire off 300 frames before breakfast and still feel like you haven’t taken a single photo.

It’s a technology built for output. For volume. For safety. But somewhere along the way, that safety started to feel sterile.

Film, by contrast, is chaos in a canister. You get 36 chances, maybe fewer. Every frame costs money. Every decision has weight. There’s no preview, no histogram, no second go. You expose for the highlights, pray for the shadows, and accept the mystery of what might come back. It’s photography with consequences.

Slowness as Rebellion

To shoot film in 2025 is to actively choose inconvenience. It’s to say, “No thanks” to the algorithmic culture of now-now-now. It’s a tiny rebellion against instant gratification. Because to shoot film is to embrace waiting—for light, for composition, for the lab.

That delay introduces a kind of mindfulness. You begin to see differently. You stop chasing moments and start recognising them. There’s no machine gun burst mode to save you. You have to trust your gut. And that trust, that leap, is where the art lives.

The Photograph as By-product

With digital, the image is the point. With film, the image is almost incidental. What matters more is the act of making it—the ritual of loading a roll, the tactile click of a shutter, the hiss of the film rewinding. It’s deeply physical. Alchemical, even.

You become less of a consumer of images and more of a participant in their making. It’s not about proving you were somewhere—it’s about experiencing it more fully by slowing down and seeing with intent.

There’s something profoundly satisfying about walking back from a shoot not with a card full of files, but with a warm roll in your pocket. You don’t know what’s on it. You just know you felt something when you pressed the shutter. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Imperfection With Soul

Let’s be real. A film scan is not going to win the pixel peeping war. Your phone—yes, the one you dropped in the loo last month—can out-resolve a 35mm negative without breaking a sweat. But what film offers is character. Not fake vintage filters. Actual, unpredictable character.

Light leaks. Grain that dances. Colour shifts. Shadows that breathe. Imperfections that feel more human than anything digital can simulate.

Because when we look back at old photos—family albums, war reportage, street photography masterpieces—we don’t remember them for their sharpness. We remember the feeling. The story. The mood.

A Tool for Presence

In a time where photography is often indistinguishable from content creation, film reminds us that taking photos can be more than just collecting visual proof. It can be a practice. A way to be present. A way to feel more alive in the moment, not less.

Film doesn’t care about likes, hashtags, or engagement. It doesn’t come with a firmware update. It just quietly demands that you pay attention—to the light, the framing, the why.

And in that attention, something shifts.

So Yes, Film Is Worse. And That’s the Point.

We can admit it now. Film is objectively worse. The numbers don’t lie. But art has never been about numbers.

Film photography offers something digital can’t: impermanence with intention. The joy of not knowing. The permission to slow down. The romance of not being in control. It’s not better by the metrics—but it’s better for the soul.

Because sometimes, the process is the point. And sometimes, that point is enough.