The Leica M4: Built to Last, Loved Forever

The Search for the perfect camera

Like camera bags, I’ve been on the search for the perfect camera for what feels like forever. I bounced from SLR to SLR, occasionally dipping into rangefinder territory, always coming back to my trusty Nikon F3. That camera was my fallback, my regular. Solid. Reliable. But I couldn’t help feeling that it was just a little too much—not in function, but in size.

I wanted something pocketable—well, jacket-pocketable at least. Truly pocket-sized cameras? Not really my thing. While I can appreciate the Olympus MJU II, half-frame cameras, and their clever design, I wasn’t looking for a toy or a novelty. I wanted a pro-level camera or nothing at all. No slow lenses. No permanently attached plastic bits. No telescoping electronics that hissed and whirred their way into action. I didn’t want to compromise. I wanted to have my cake and eat it too.

So I started to drift. Rangefinders began to intrigue me. I experimented with Kodak Retinas—beautiful little machines with gorgeous lenses—but the lack of an array of interchangeable glass felt limiting. I dabbled with Canon Canonets, liked the form factor, but never fell in love. The viewfinder was too small, the build too light. I kept coming back to the F3.

Then one day I looked—really looked—at Leica.

Now, I’d known about Leica for ages. Who hasn’t? They’re practically synonymous with the concept of the rangefinder. But for years I’d brushed them off. Too expensive. Too hyped. Too many people talking about the “Leica look” like it was some mystical force.

But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The Leica M system was compact, yes—but also built to last. It had that perfect heft, mechanical reliability, and the kind of design that felt both artistic and functional. Glorious lenses. Gorgeous design. And crucially: endless serviceability.

It wasn’t about the prestige. Not really. It was about the essentials. All the stuff I actually cared about in a camera. Leica wasn’t just a name—it was a philosophy.

So I started to research. I read. I watched. I browsed. And then I visited Dan Tamarkin of Tamarkin Camera in Chicago. That visit sealed the deal. I picked up a Leica M. I felt it in my hand. I looked through the viewfinder. I advanced the lever. I heard the shutter. And I knew. This was the dream camera I’d been chasing all along.

And I wasn’t going to be content until I was shooting one.

Why M4 - The Sweet Spot of Simplicity and Refinement

Let’s start with the obvious question: Why the M4?

Why not the M3, the darling of purists? Or the M6, beloved by hipsters and light-meter enthusiasts alike?

Because the M4 is where Leica got it exactly right—before the accountants started adding features no one asked for, and after they worked out the kinks of early design quirks.

The M3, as gorgeous as it is, has that charming-but-slow film rewind knob. If you've ever stood on a street corner cranking that thing like you're trying to summon rain, you know the struggle. Enter the M4—the hero with a sleek, angled rewind crank that lets you rewind a roll without developing carpal tunnel.

But unlike the M5 or M6, the M4 is gloriously meter-free. No batteries. No little red dots blinking at you like a judgmental traffic light. Just you, your instincts, and a healthy relationship with the Sunny 16 rule (or a pocket meter, if you're feeling fancy). It’s the perfect embodiment of less is more. Leica gave us exactly what we needed—and nothing we didn’t.

There were also practical considerations. I wanted a camera with 35mm framelines—my favorite focal length. It’s how I see the world. The M3, as good as it is, skips those framelines entirely. That ruled it out. And I wanted a camera built in Germany. Nothing against Canada (bless you, Midland), but I was after something made in Wetzlar—the motherland.

I also wanted full brass construction. No zinc. No aluminum alloys to shave a few grams. I wanted a tank. Something that could take a hit from a ton of bricks and still fire off a perfect frame. This wasn’t just my camera—it was the one I planned to hand down to my kids. And hopefully, one day, they’d hand it down too.

And I didn’t want a battery. Not even for a light meter. My F3 walks that line beautifully, blending electronic brains with mechanical heart. But with the M4, I wanted pure soul. Nothing to fail. No tech to flinch. Just me and the camera, talking directly, unfiltered.

To fully appreciate that sweet spot, it helps to understand where the M4 sits in Leica’s famously confusing—but undeniably charming—timeline. Leica’s M system begins with the M3 in 1954 (no M1 or M2 came first, just straight into "3" like a movie sequel you missed). The M3 was revolutionary, boasting a bright viewfinder and introducing the bayonet M-mount. Then came the M2—yes, after the M3—stripped down a bit for photojournalists who didn’t need 135mm framelines cluttering their view.

Then there’s the M1, the simplest of the bunch, often used for scientific or microscope applications, and, naturally, released after the M2. Still with me? Good, because here comes the M4, finally injecting some ergonomic finesse and usability improvements. It was a natural progression in every way except numerically.

After the M4, Leica went briefly bonkers. The M5 (1971) was a big, boxy misstep with a built-in meter and a body so large it looked like it accidentally swallowed an SLR. Then came the M6, which—despite what the number implies—became the spiritual successor to the M4, retaining much of its DNA while sneaking in a light meter (and eventually plastic bits, but we don’t talk about that).

Then came the M7, MP, MA, and eventually the digital Ms: M8, M9, M10… and then the M11, which actually followed M10 for once. Consistency? Barely. Character? Plenty.

All this to say: Leica’s naming conventions may look like a math quiz gone wrong, but the M4 represents that golden age—before batteries crept in, before minimalism turned into marketing, and while Leica was still building cameras like heirlooms.

And that’s exactly what the M4 feels like—an evolution with soul. One of the last Leicas built in a way that felt human. For everything that came after, Leica adopted hyper-precise manufacturing with incredibly tight part tolerances. If a part was even microscopically out of spec, it was rejected. But with the M4 and everything before it, the tolerances were a little looser—and that’s what made it special. Master technicians didn’t just assemble these cameras; they finessed them. They knew how to make the end product greater than the sum of its parts.

That might not matter to everyone, but to me, it makes the camera feel more alive. More like it was tuned by hand, massaged into excellence, rather than stamped into it by a press.

Buying the Dream: A Rough Start to a Lifelong Camera

So after tons of research, reflection, and window shopping, I finally settled on the Leica M4. It felt vintage enough to satisfy my love for mechanical cameras, but young enough to have all the thoughtful refinements Leica had added over the years. I wasn’t ready to pull the trigger just yet—until I stumbled across a glorious M4 for a price that made my frugal Midwestern heart skip a beat.

It wasn’t in pristine condition. In fact, it was rough. Real rough. But I could work with that. The bones were solid, and the soul was intact. So I bought it. And right away, I sent it off to Shueido Camera in South Korea for a custom paint job. The original finish wasn’t just worn—it was practically nonexistent. Some folks might balk at the idea of repainting a Leica, and I get it. To many, it’s sacrilege. A repaint is seen as stripping away the originality, the texture, the patina of decades.

But I wasn’t after a museum piece. I was after my camera—something with personality and flair. And let’s be honest: in the condition it was in, the only thing it would have stood out for was looking like it had survived a house fire. So a few months later, my M4 returned to me cloaked in glorious green paint. Not army green. Not neon green. Just the perfect, rich shade of olive that said, yes, I’ve been places, and I still have more to go.

It was unique. It was beautiful. And it was mine.

I took it out on its first big adventure: a film shoot at Fort Bragg’s military base. We were filming special forces and paratroopers—tough, gritty stuff. I couldn’t have asked for a better proving ground. But when I got my first roll developed, my heart sank. The shutter was sticking. There was a faint, uneven gradient across the frames—a sign the second curtain wasn’t moving quite right.

You can repaint a car, but if the engine’s shot, you’re still going to have a bad time.

So I took it to Dan Tamarkin. He advanced the shutter. He hit the release. He frowned. “Yeah,” he said, “there’s definitely something off.” And just like that, my newly customized Leica was headed back to the very factory in Germany where it had been born decades earlier.

A few grueling weeks passed. Then I got the call: “It’s ready to be picked up.”

Since then, it’s been flawless. Hundreds of rolls. Dozens of trips. No issues. And I know that if anything does go wrong, I have someone who can send it back to the source for a proper CLA.

That kind of support is rare. Leica still services cameras from the 1920s. They stand by their craftsmanship. They’re not just legendary—they’re loyal. And that, to me, is as valuable as any sharp lens or precision dial.

A bit of History - A Mechanical Masterpiece You Can Feel

You don’t use an M4—you experience it. Every interaction with this camera is tactile poetry. The advance lever glides with a satisfying resistance, like spreading cold butter on warm toast (if that butter also cocked a beautifully engineered shutter).

The shutter release doesn’t click—it whispers. A soft snick that’s quieter than your conscience when you tell yourself buying another lens is a "necessary investment." It’s the kind of sound that reminds you photography isn’t about noise—it’s about presence.

And don’t get me started on the build quality. If modern cameras are plastic sandwiches stuffed with tech, the M4 is a solid billet of German confidence. Brass under chrome, mechanical precision in every dial. You could probably use it to hammer in a tent stake on a camping trip—though I’d never admit if I have.

But what makes this camera truly legendary isn’t just its feel—it’s its lineage. Leica didn’t just create a camera; they pioneered an entire format. In a time when medium and large format were the professional norms, Leica introduced the idea that 35mm film could be used for serious photography. Oskar Barnack’s creation of the first Leica brought compact precision and speed to a world of bulky tripods and slow plates.

And that changed everything.

Leicas became the camera of choice for photojournalists. Robert Capa’s war zones. Cartier-Bresson’s decisive moments. They weren’t lugging around Graflex beasts—they were using Leicas. Fast. Stealthy. Sharp. From revolutions to royal weddings, the small Leica was always in the room—quietly observing, elegantly documenting.

That legacy flows directly into the M4. Holding one is like being handed a baton in a relay race that stretches back a century. It isn’t just a tool—it’s a time capsule, a trusted companion shaped by a history of speed, stealth, and soul. When you shoot with one, you’re not just capturing light. You’re honoring a tradition.

Still, it’s worth acknowledging that the Leica M4—and the Leica M line more broadly—isn’t the go-to tool for every kind of photographer. In many ways, it hasn't been for a while. By the 1980s and especially the digital boom, SLRs and later DSLRs dominated everything from sports to commercial to fashion photography. The autofocus, fast frame rates, zoom lenses, and built-in metering systems made them the sensible choice for working professionals.

Even now, no sports photographer is showing up to shoot the World Cup with a Leica M. The M4 doesn’t have interchangeable backs, built-in meters, or lenses that zoom with a twist. It’s not silent like a mirrorless, and it’s certainly not fast. But that’s never been the point.

What’s important to remember is that rangefinders were once the industry standard. Before SLRs arrived on the scene with their through-the-lens viewfinders and reflex mirrors, rangefinders were the dominant camera type for professionals and serious amateurs alike. Leica helped invent that norm—and when the SLR wave came crashing in, most other companies quickly jumped ship.

Canon, Nikon, Contax—they all pivoted to SLRs and rarely looked back. Leica? Sure, they eventually introduced the R-series of SLRs, beginning with the Leicaflex and continuing through the R3 to R9, often in collaboration with Minolta. These were beautifully made cameras in their own right, and Leica tried to position them with slogans like “For those who see differently” and “Precision tools for the creative eye.”

But by the time Leica entered the SLR race, it was already being won by the likes of Nikon’s F-series and Canon’s EOS line. Leica’s models were expensive, lacked the autofocus breakthroughs of the time, and didn’t have the lens variety or marketing muscle of their competitors. Their slow adoption of the SLR format—intentional or not—meant Leica went from being a category leader to a niche cult favorite.

And yet, they didn’t fade into obscurity. Far from it. Leica doubled down on what made them great. While others raced toward automation, Leica kept building rangefinders. They weren’t interested in chasing the market—they were interested in perfecting their vision. And they’ve stuck with it.

The result? The Leica M series has endured where so many other systems have come and gone. They may not be the most common cameras in the professional arena anymore, but they just might be the most loved. Decade after decade, Leica has shown that sometimes the best way forward is to go deeper, not faster. And the M4 is proof of that enduring philosophy.

I’ve owned cameras that did everything for me—autofocus faster than I could blink, calculate exposure with NASA-level precision, and shoot 20 frames per second just in case something interesting happened. But none of them made me love photography the way the M4 does.

When I’m out with the M4, I’m not just taking pictures—I’m living them. I walk slower. I see more. I interact with people differently because I’m not hiding behind a giant DSLR or fiddling with menus. It’s just me, a lens, and 36 chances to capture something meaningful.

And when I get that roll back from the lab, it feels like Christmas morning. Not because every shot is perfect (they’re not), but because every shot was intentional. Every frame is a memory I crafted with my own hands, through glass and gears—not algorithms.

Here’s one simple testament to how much I love this camera: Since purchasing my M4 in 2019, I haven’t picked up a single 35mm film camera. That might not sound like a big lift, but keep in mind—pre-Leica, I was changing systems like seasonal jackets. I was shooting with something different every couple of months, constantly searching. But with the M4, I’ve finally found some rest.

Does that mean I’ll never buy another 35mm camera? I mean, come on… that feels impossible. But I can guarantee this: if I do, it’ll be for the sake of curiosity. For the sake of expanding horizons and learning something new—not because I’m still searching.

The Rangefinder Experience: Slowing Down to Speed Up

Let’s address the elephant in the room: rangefinders aren’t for everyone. They’re quirky, they require patience, and they force you to engage your brain in ways that autofocus shooters haven’t had to since 1985.

But that’s exactly why I love it.

With the M4, photography stops being a race to spray and pray. You slow down. You observe. You notice how the light falls on a stranger’s face, how the shadows stretch across a sidewalk. You pre-visualize, you anticipate—and when the moment comes, you’re ready.

Framing through a rangefinder window, seeing the world outside your framelines, gives you this almost telepathic connection to the scene. You’re not buried behind a screen or peering through a tunnel. You’re there. And when those little ghost images in the focusing patch align—snap—it feels like winning a game you didn’t even realize you were playing.

The Leica M4’s rangefinder is a marvel of simplicity and precision. The bright viewfinder displays automatic framelines for 35mm, 50mm, 90mm, and 135mm lenses depending on which lens is mounted, giving you just enough compositional guidance without clutter. The parallax-corrected framelines adjust as you focus, and the large focusing patch in the center makes manual focusing surprisingly quick and accurate—even in low light.

Sure, it takes practice. At first, I fumbled through it. I wasn’t sure if it was working for me—lining up those twin ghost images didn’t feel intuitive. But after a few rolls, it all clicked. Since then, I’ve had better luck nailing focus with my M4 than with any other manual focus camera I own. It just makes sense. Compared to my F3—lovely though it is—I’ve seen a noticeable jump in keepers. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I completely blew a shot due to missed focus.

It’s that consistent. That confident. And that rewarding. The M4 also features a built-in mechanical self-timer—a simple but satisfying lever that lets you stage a photo or jump into the frame yourself. The shutter release is threaded for a cable release, a small detail that makes a big difference for tripod work or long exposures. And like most Leica Ms of the era, it has a PC sync port for flash use, a film counter that resets automatically, and a faster film loading system that automatically gripps the end of the film to load it onto the take-up spool…which is non removable. This makes loading just a little less fiddly than previous models, once you get the hang of it.

I’ll concede—loading film into an M4 isn’t as idiot-proof as a Canon AE-1. The bottom-loading system has spooked many a first-timer. The detachable baseplate, the careful threading, the aligning of sprockets—it’s a process that feels like defusing a tiny bomb made of celluloid.

But once you get it? It becomes a ritual. Like brewing a perfect cup of coffee or tying a tie before a big event. It’s a moment to pause, to reset, to appreciate that you’re about to create something tangible.

And let’s face it—there’s something deeply satisfying about closing that baseplate, advancing the lever, and hearing that first reassuring snick. It’s a promise between you and the camera: Let’s go make something beautiful.

One of the most charming—and occasionally challenging—features of the Leica M4 is that it has no built-in light meter. For many shooters, that’s a deal-breaker. For me, it was part of the appeal. I didn’t want a battery. I didn’t want electronics. But I did want some sort of quick and dirty exposure guide, something I could reference in tricky light without pulling out my phone or a handheld meter every five minutes.

So I went down the rabbit hole of on-camera options. There are a lot out there: modern LED-based cold shoe meters, tiny gadgets with knobs and screens, and vintage selenium meters of varying accuracy. After some testing and soul-searching, I landed on something that felt just right: the Leicameter MC.

It’s a little silver meter made by Leica themselves back in the day. Like the camera, it doesn’t need a battery. It runs on selenium cells, which have a shelf life and personality all their own, but so far mine has held up just fine. The aluminum silver finish matches the accents on my M4 beautifully, and it mounts right on the cold shoe like it was born there.

It’s not the most accurate meter in the world—certainly not compared to my Sekonic or even a well-calibrated phone app—but it’s always there, and that matters. It’s enough to get me in the ballpark, and more often than not, that’s all I need. Plus, it adds character. It makes the whole camera look like something out of a Cold War-era spy kit.

The Leicameter MC won’t be for everyone. But for me, it’s the perfect compromise between maintaining the purity of my M4 and adding just a touch of utility. It keeps me shooting, and it keeps me honest. And that’s what matters most.

The Glass: Legendary Lenses and Modern Alternatives

No Leica M discussion is complete without acknowledging the glass. Leica lenses are some of the most revered in the world—often constructed from solid brass, with that unmistakable weight and smoothness that screams quality. They feel like jewelry made for work. There's a solidity to them, a confidence, as if they were designed to be passed down through multiple generations. And optically? They’re sharp where they need to be, dreamy where they don’t, and always full of character.

The first lenses I mounted to my M4 were adapted Canon LTM (Leica Thread Mount) rangefinder lenses. They were soft, they were characterful, and they had a similar heft to Leica glass. They weren’t perfect, but they felt right in the hand—and they taught me quickly how beautiful vintage optics could be when paired with the right camera.

Now, I’ve rented Leica lenses. I’ve handled them. I’ve admired them. But I haven’t yet owned one. Why? Well, mostly: cost. They’re not exactly priced for impulse buys. Dan Tamarkin would probably tell you that buying a Leica camera only makes real sense if you're going to invest in Leica glass. And in some ways, he’s right. The lenses are where much of the magic happens.

But here’s the thing: even without owning Leica lenses, the M4 body alone has been worth the journey. It’s that good. And thankfully, the lens landscape has evolved. In recent years, Voigtländer has released a range of excellent M-mount lenses—many in gorgeous silver finishes that pair beautifully with my custom green M4. These lenses aren’t just affordable alternatives—they’re genuinely good. Some of them have their own cult followings now.

From the legendary Leica Summilux 35mm f/1.4 to the modern Voigtlander Nokton Vintage Line 35mm f/1.5, there’s a wide spectrum of M-mount options that can sing on the front of this camera. Want something dreamy and vintage? Try a collapsible Summicron. Want crisp and clinical? Zeiss has a Planar with your name on it.

The M4 is a gateway, not a limitation. And whether you're loading it up with classic Leica glass or exploring modern masterpieces from Voigtländer, you're stepping into a tradition where lens choice is as much about feel as it is about focal length.

In Conclusion: The Best Leica is the One That Makes You Feel

Is the Leica M4 for everyone? Probably not. It won’t win any spec sheet wars. It won’t autofocus your fast-moving dog or sync with your smartphone.

But if you’re the kind of person who finds beauty in simplicity—who believes that photography is as much about how you shoot as what you shoot—then the M4 might just be your soulmate.

It’s not just the best Leica because of its design or its history. It’s the best Leica because it makes you feel something every time you pick it up.

And in a world obsessed with faster, newer, and more automated, that feeling is priceless.

So here’s to the Leica M4—the camera that reminds me, with every soft shutter snick, that photography isn’t about perfection. It’s about presence, patience, and the quiet joy of seeing the world one frame at a time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a fresh roll of Tri-X calling my name.

Leica M4 Quick Facts Sheet

• Manufacturer: Ernst Leitz GmbH (Wetzlar, Germany)

• Release Year: 1967

• Production Years: 1967–1975

• Total Units Produced: Approximately 58,000

• Lens Mount: Leica M-mount

• Viewfinder Magnification: 0.72x

• Framelines: 35mm, 50mm, 90mm, and 135mm (automatically selected based on lens)

• Shutter: Horizontal cloth focal-plane shutter

• Shutter Speeds: 1 second to 1/1000s + Bulb (fully mechanical)

• Film Loading: Bottom-loading with rapid-load mechanism (improved from previous M models)

• Film Rewind: Angled rewind crank (first M model to feature this)

• Light Meter: None (meterless body—external meter or Sunny 16 recommended)

• Flash Sync: Cold shoe with PC terminal; sync at 1/50s

• Weight: Approx. 560g (without lens)

• Battery: None required (fully mechanical operation)

• Notable Improvements Over M3 & M2:

  • Combined rewind crank (vs. M3’s knob)

  • Self-resetting frame counter

  • Improved film loading system with take-up spool

  • Easier to service and repair