The Hidden Chemical Legacy of Film: How Photography Giants Fueled War Efforts
In today’s digital world, where most images are captured on smartphones and stored in clouds, it’s easy to forget that photography once relied entirely on chemistry. Alice Lovejoy’s “Tales of Militant Chemistry: The Film Factory in a Century of War” reveals the surprising and often disturbing connections between photography companies like Kodak and Agfa and their pivotal roles in weaponry development throughout the 20th century. While some filmmakers like Christopher Nolan still prefer traditional film for artistic reasons—as seen in his 2023 blockbuster “Oppenheimer”—few realize that the very companies that produced this film were deeply involved in the Manhattan Project and other military endeavors.
Lovejoy’s narrative begins with Kodak’s remarkable transformation from a modest Rochester, New York startup in 1883 to a global chemical powerhouse by the 1920s. Running parallel to Kodak’s story is that of its chief competitor, Germany’s Agfa, headquartered in Wolfen. These photographic titans weren’t just producing cameras and film—they were creating a vast array of chemical products including synthetic fibers, plastics, pesticides, artificial flavors, and medicines. However, their expertise in photographic chemistry would ultimately lead them down a more ominous path as wartime demands redirected their manufacturing capabilities toward deadlier purposes.
The chemistry of early film production was inherently dangerous, as early 20th century photographic film typically used cellulose nitrate—essentially cotton soaked in nitric acid—which was highly flammable and released toxic fumes when burned. These noxious emissions were chemically similar to the poison gas deployed during World War I, making Agfa’s film factories ideally equipped to produce chemical weapons for Germany. The company’s expertise in chemical processes allowed for a seamless transition from peacetime photography to wartime chemical warfare. By the 1920s, Kodak had begun developing safer alternatives like cellulose acetate film, but economic factors kept the more dangerous nitrate film in widespread use. Ironically, cellulose acetate became profitable not primarily for safety reasons but because it served as an excellent weatherproof coating for military aircraft during WWI, showcasing how wartime demands often drove chemical innovation.
The connection between film production and military applications deepened during World War II when Kodak’s subsidiary Tennessee Eastman began mass-producing RDX, a powerful explosive used by both Allied and Axis forces. This production leveraged the company’s expertise with acetic acid, a chemical also essential to cellulose acetate film production. Tennessee Eastman’s operation was staggeringly efficient, producing 570 tons of this high-powered explosive daily by war’s end, and the company maintained its position as America’s sole RDX producer until 1999. This decades-long role in explosive manufacturing highlights how deeply intertwined photographic companies became with military supply chains.
Perhaps most startling was Tennessee Eastman’s crucial role in the Manhattan Project. The U.S. government selected the company to construct and operate the Y-12 plant in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, which used massive electromagnets to separate fissionable uranium from its heavier, non-fissionable counterpart. This processed uranium was then shipped to Los Alamos, New Mexico, where it became the core material for the first atomic bombs. The company’s expertise in precise chemical processes made them an ideal partner for this unprecedented scientific undertaking, demonstrating how film production techniques could be adapted for nuclear weapons development.
Lovejoy’s book excels not in providing detailed chemical explanations but in weaving together compelling human stories against this backdrop of industrial chemistry and warfare. We meet figures like Kodak co-founder George Eastman, who was forced to abandon his education at age eight following his father’s death, and Aleksandra Lawrik, a Ukrainian woman forcibly relocated to work in Agfa’s German factories during World War II, where exposure to caustic chemicals permanently damaged her lungs. These personal narratives humanize what might otherwise be a technical history, reminding readers of both the innovation and suffering that accompanied these chemical advancements. Through these interconnected stories spanning politics, economics, technology, and personal biography, Lovejoy creates a powerful testament to chemistry’s dual nature—capable of creating both art and destruction, memories and munitions.
