The Rise and Fall of Technicolor

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Should you possess the necessary light-sensitive cells (cones and rods), a scene is etched onto your retina: Dorothy Gale stirs from a harsh blow to her head, pushes open the plain, sepia-hued door of her farmhouse, and steps into an extraordinary world bursting with vibrant primary colors – ruby slippers, yellow brick paths, and emerald cities.

We’re not just in a world different from Kansas or Hollywood; we’re beyond the typical grayscale of most films that year, as the portal to Oz didn’t merely introduce color to cinema – it wasn’t the only one showcasing vibrant colors in 1939, with movies like Gone With the Wind also displaying rich, luminous tones. However, The Wizard of Oz stood out by presenting a stark contrast between two film realities: the bleak black-and-white backdrop of the Great Depression and the radiant Technicolor world that was almost part of its trademark.

The recent news about Technicolor’s decline is another sad announcement of a well-respected Hollywood emblem falling. Back in 1965, when twenty-two out of the top twenty-five all-time box office hits were filmed using Technicolor, it became a recognized term in the English language. However, it was entered into the dictionary with a lowercase “t,” which, if consistently used in a newspaper, might prompt a copyright lawyer to intervene and correct it.

Historically, Hollywood has always been meticulous about spelling. In its golden era, Technicolor was prominently featured in opening credits, frequently highlighted with separate title cards, and showcased boldly on posters and lobby cards using vibrant red, blue, and yellow typography. As early as 1941, filmmaker Preston Sturges, growing weary of the relentless promotion for movies shot “In Glorious Technicolor,” attempted to persuade Paramount Pictures to introduce a title card for his film Sullivan’s Travels (1941) that read “In Beautiful Black and White.” However, the studio declined this suggestion.

Since the invention of Daguerreotypes, full-spectrum color had been an elusive goal in photography, and early filmmakers shared this ambition, striving to create a cinematic experience that mirrored life’s vibrancy. Early attempts at colorization included tinting (applying dye to the negative) and hand-stenciling each frame, but the ultimate aim was to capture colors directly on celluloid film stock. In 1911, motion picture innovator John J. Murdock invested a substantial $6 million into Kinemacolor, a company that employed red and green filters in both photography and projection. However, this method was fraught with issues such as “fringing,” a problem where an object like a horse’s tail would appear first green and then red due to double imaging.

Technicolor, a groundbreaking and financially successful color photography method, was the brainchild and lifelong passion of Herbert T. Kalmus, a gifted chemical engineer who studied at MIT and the University of Zurich. In 1915, he established the Technicolor Motion Picture Corp., pouring himself into the development (in both senses) of color photography with an Edison-like zeal. An initial version of Technicolor (“a double coated relief image in dyes”) was displayed in the interracial melodrama “The Toll of the Sea” (1922), produced by Joseph and Nicholas Schenck, directed by Chester Franklin, and starring Anna May Wong, whose colors were neither black nor white. As reported by Billboard, “the silks and kimonos registered perfectly… There are no objectionable features which entered into the making of other color films [and] no quivering flashes of red.” Alongside brief sequences in “The Phantom of the Opera” (1925) and “Ben-Hur” (1926), Douglas Fairbanks’ film, oddly titled “The Black Pirate” (1926), boosted the Technicolor brand. Neither Kalmus nor Fairbanks could envision piracy without color.

In the pursuit of selling Technicolor, Kalmus persistently refined various filming and processing methods, enhancing color registration and dye transfer. By 1926, he and his team (often credited by Technicolor historians for pivotal inventions due to their brilliant scientific minds) developed a unique Technicolor camera that employed a beam splitter to divide red and green light onto a single black-and-white film strip. The subsequent development phase in the Technicolor lab utilized what Kalmus, who assumed everyone shared his understanding of dye transfer systems, called a “two-component subtractive inhibition process.” Essentially, this method involved absorbing colored dye to produce a negative from which prints were made.

For a period, the two-tone Technicolor technique proved incredibly popular. As Kalmus recalled, these Technicolor cameras were capable of operating around the clock, and during the two-color boom, an estimated 40 short films and features were created, such as King of Jazz (1929), featuring cultural appropriator Paul Whiteman, Whoopee! (1930) starring comedian Eddie Cantor with his distinctive banjo eyes, and Warner Bros.’ Mystery of the Wax Museum (1933). However, the grainy and overly vibrant appearance eventually led to a decline in its popularity. “It’s harsh on the eyes,” complained moviegoers.

1932 marked a monumental moment for me as a movie enthusiast when J. Arthur Ball, vice president and technical director at Technicolor, unveiled the three-strip Technicolor process that we often associate with the golden age of cinema. To put it simply (avoiding jargon, though I must admit it’s not easy for me), this revolutionary process involved capturing an image using three different negatives, each filtered by a single lens. A prism then divided the light from the image onto these separate negatives – green, red, and blue.

In the lab, they used a method similar to lithographic dye printing, applying the three dyes individually to the film base during the “imbibition” process (hence the easier-to-remember nickname “IB Technicolor”). With this innovation, Technicolor had reached its zenith, offering a comprehensive studio and laboratory service, from filming to the production of release prints – a complete package that a fan like me would call “a masterpiece of cinematic technology.

After perfecting Technicolor, the challenge was to persuade Hollywood studios to take a chance on the intricate and costly process (approximately three to four times pricier than reliable black and white); to rent Kalmus’s Technicolor cameras (which were expensive at $30,000 and weighed 750 pounds); and use his Technicolor labs.

Walt Disney, a visionary in the field, was Kalmus’s initial major client. In 1932, Disney agreed to a contract for creating the following year’s series of Silly Symphonies cartoons in Technicolor. This decision proved fruitful immediately as the seven-minute film Flowers and Trees (1932) won a special Academy Award. Variety magazine commented, “Easy on the eyes, perhaps the color technicians can clarify why that is.” However, it was Disney’s cartoon masterpiece The Three Little Pigs (1933), where the Big Bad Wolf turns blue due to overexertion, that truly solidified Technicolor as the preferred format for animation. The following year, John Hay (“Jock”) Whitney of Pioneer Pictures edged out Disney to produce the first live-action musical short in Technicolor, La Cucaracha (1934), which “saturated the screen with vibrant and radiant color harmonies never seen before!

Indeed, it was the live-action film market that Whitney aimed to conquer first. To start, he took a gamble with the film “Becky Sharp” (1935), a tale about a scandalous woman from the late Napoleon era, directed by Rouben Mamoulian. In a lavish ballroom scene on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo, Mamoulian unveiled his new palette, creating a vibrant spectacle with women in blue, green, and yellow dresses swirling and men parading in bright red uniforms. Astonished audiences broke into applause spontaneously. “Up until now,” said Mamoulian, “the movie industry has been like an artist using only pencil. Technicolor has given us paints.” With the critic from the New York Post declaring it the “death knell of black and white pictures” after watching Becky Sharp, it was clear that color had arrived in films.

Despite the initial mistaken prediction of its demise, Technicolor continued to thrive over the subsequent years, particularly in genres that offered an escape from reality such as musicals, costume dramas, travelogues, and animation. The film “Vogues of 1938” (1937) garnered better critic acclaim for its vibrant fashion displays than for its weak musical sequences. The success of “The Goldwyn Follies” (1938) was so significant that Sam Goldwyn boasted that all his future films would be in Technicolor, a promise he eventually broke. In the film “The Adventures of Robin Hood” (1938), it was Errol Flynn wearing tights that attracted audiences more than the Technicolor, but spectators were also encouraged to appreciate the 1182 colorfully dressed figures in flowing capes, brocade vests, and various shades of satin.

The advertising for Disney’s 1937 film “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” highlighted that it was animated using “stunning multiplane Technicolor,” which refers to a technique where the camera was positioned to shoot from above, looking downwards, onto the drawing board. This method created an optical effect giving the appearance of depth.

In essence, Natalie Kalmus, wife of Herbert Kalmus who was the brains behind Technicolor, established and enforced its artistic principles. Serving as the head of the Color Advisory Service at Technicolor, she dictated the appropriate application of color schemes. Despite their complex marital history (married in 1902, divorced in 1921 but still cohabiting), Natalie remained professionally involved with Technicolor; she was an integral part of the filmmaking process, contributing with the camera, film stock, and lab equipment. In 1939, The New York Times humorously remarked that Natalie could separate colors as effortlessly as a film executive could rearrange an infinitive, praising her as the “ringleader of the rainbow” and “lady of three Technicolor factories.

Generally speaking, Mrs. Kalmus was known for her assertive nature and clear convictions, traits that often put her at odds with film directors, art directors, and set designers. She had her own unique ideas about the “laws of emphasis” and “color separation,” which she believed should be used to intensify a movie’s emotional impact without being overly noticeable. Kalmus even created a well-known color chart that associated specific hues with emotions. For instance, scarlet was considered the color of attraction, blue symbolized peace, harmony, and home, while green could act as both a calming influence and an energizer, depending on the individual. Photoplay magazine published her color coding system, allowing ordinary women like shop clerks and homemakers to choose “the right color vibrations” to aid them in their pursuit of success and happiness, much like movie stars.

In the movie industry under the Hollywood star system, it was customary that the visual aesthetic of a scene (mise en scène) was primarily determined by the physical attributes of the main actress – her hair color, eye color, skin tone, and outfit. This transitioned to Technicolor was much like the shift to sound, where some performers thrived more than others. For instance, Maureen O’Hara, with her striking red hair and vibrant green eyes, was ideally suited for a closeup in this color format. Similarly, Rita Hayworth, another redhead, was celebrated as “nature’s gift to Technicolor.” However, Joan Bennett, then sporting blonde hair, was referred to as “god’s gift to the Technicolor cameraman,” and green-eyed brunette Yvonne De Carlo was known as “Hollywood’s Number One Technicolor Girl.” In contrast, natural redhead Joan Crawford did not shine in Technicolor; her features were more suited for black and white films.

Typically, traditional Hollywood filmmakers, who were all quite old-fashioned, disliked Kalmus’s meddlesome influence. During the filming of Gold Is Where You Find It (1938), the fiery Hungarian director Michael Curtiz exclaimed, “Don’t ruin my movie, Mrs. Kalmus!”

This version attempts to make the text more conversational and easy to read, while still maintaining the original meaning and style.

With growing mastery over Technicolor, filmmakers began challenging the Kalmus guidelines. According to veteran cinematographer Stanley Cortez, Technicolor’s preference for illumination was everywhere, even under tables or other strange places. Producer David O. Selznick and costume designer Walter Plunkett found Kalmus’s suggestions for the costumes in Gone With the Wind to be too dreary, so they circumvented her by going directly to Herbert to achieve the desired effects in the lab. Vincente Minnelli disregarded Kalmus’s advice to soften it down for Meet Me in St. Louis (1944), resulting in exceptional outcomes. Film critic James Agee was astounded by how affectionately Technicolor had captured the somber mahogany, tender muslin, and benign gaslights of the era, remarking that “Technicolor has seldom been more lovingly utilized.

Even during the turmoil of World War II, the annual surge in Technicolor film production didn’t slow down one bit – a staggering 50 movies were lined up for release between 1944 and 1945. Though the war itself was captured in black-and-white newsreels, Technicolor was used to honor our soldiers, as if this vivid format should not be confined solely to Hollywood’s entertainment realm. In fact, several military documentaries like “At the Front in North Africa with the U.S. Army” (1942), “The Battle of Midway” (1942), “With the Marines at Tarawa” (1944), and “To the Shores of Iwo Jima” (1945) were all beautifully filmed in full 35mm Technicolor, right on the battlefield. Interestingly, the Pacific Theater received more color coverage because the color film stock could be refrigerated aboard battleships. As a gamer, it’s fascinating to see how technology was utilized even during such challenging times, transforming reality into vibrant, Technicolor stories.

Among all Technicolor war movies, William Wyler’s “The Memphis Belle” (1944), which followed a B-17 aircraft on its 25th mission over Germany during World War II, stood out as the most beloved. Filmed using portable Cine-Kodak cameras with Kodachrome 16mm film, the footage was later expanded to 35mm and processed at Technicolor’s lab in Hollywood. A total of fifty copies were produced, marketed as “the Technicolor tale of our aerial heroes.” Despite potential color quality issues due to the camera operators’ inability to prepare for the swift and intense action they witnessed, this was justified, according to “The Hollywood Reporter.

Kalmus’s tenure as the queen bee of Technicolor came to an end in 1950, when her unique association with Herbert escalated into a legal dispute. This case eventually reached the Supreme Court, which ruled in 1952 that she did not have the right to be a full partner in Technicolor.

After Natalie Kalmus’ departure, Technicolor colors shed their restraints. In the 1950s, alongside grand widescreen presentations and massive casts, its vibrant strokes were displayed to captivate audiences, drawing them away from the disappointingly small black-and-white screen in their homes. This strategy was humorously criticized in Cole Porter’s song for MGM’s musical “Silk Stockings” (1957), “Magnificent Technicolor, Astonishing Cinemascope, and Surround Sound,” a number that was two-thirds self-referential as it was filmed in Metrocolor.

Metrocolor, similar to Warnercolor, was among numerous competing color methods that emerged in the 1950s aiming to challenge Technicolor. Many of these were modifications based on Eastmancolor, a single-negative color process launched by Kodak in 1950. More affordable and user-friendly, Eastmancolor incorporated three light-sensitive emulsions instead of the traditional multiple layers. By partnering with less costly but less stable dye-producing labs, these new color processes gradually replaced their predecessors.

The most recent American movie filmed using the classic Technicolor process was “Foxfire,” released by Universal International in 1955, featuring Jane Russell with her dark hair and Jeff Chandler with his silver locks. This film signified the conclusion of the three-strip Technicolor period, a detail that was overlooked in reviews and advertisements.

In his characteristic manner, Kalmus unveiled a novel approach to challenge Eastmancolor. He emphasized in an article written for The Hollywood Reporter in 1955, coinciding with Technicolor’s 40th anniversary, that the introduction of this enhanced Technicolor process was a significant step forward, not the end of the road. His new Technicolor camera operated on a single negative, yet the imbibition process remained integral for producing vivid prints.

Eastmancolor represented the wave of the future, while Technicolor began to lose ground. The “Color by Technicolor” or “Prints by Technicolor” labels on subsequent films didn’t always mean full service from camera to lab; they simply indicated lab work. In the 1970s, faced with competitive low-cost options, Technicolor closed its Hollywood, Rome, and London labs. When their London facility sold its equipment to China, Variety humorously titled the news: “Technicolor Sells Plant to Red Chinese.

Following a twenty-year pause, the initial Technicolor dye transfer process was reawakened and improved for the film “Batman & Robin” (1997). This refined method was also employed in several other productions like “Godzilla” (1998), “Toy Story 2” (1999), and “Pearl Harbor” (2001). However, this short-lived revival came to an end in 2001 when Thomson Multimedia took over the company and shut it down.

By that time, digital technologies were gradually replacing not just the process of imbibition but also celluloid, as James Layton, an archivist at the George Eastman House and co-author of “The Dawn of Technicolor 1915-1935“, published in 2015, mourns. He compares each Technicolor print to a one-of-a-kind piece of art hanging in a museum. Once it’s gone, there’s no way to recreate it.

Despite passing away, Technicolor has managed to exact a sort of posthumous revenge. A vintage Technicolor print maintains its vibrancy and distinct color divisions, while old Eastmancolor from around 1950-1975 tends to fade into pale pinks. In 1980, director Martin Scorsese described watching a retrospective in less-than-impressive Eastmancolor as a traumatic experience: “It was like witnessing a horror show,” he exclaimed, shuddering at the memory, “an absolute horror show.

In modern times, many movie enthusiasts might never have the chance to witness a 35mm Technicolor film playing through the lens of a projector, which is why film historian Fred E. Basten dedicated his book, “Glorious Technicolor: The Movies’ Magic Rainbow,” published in 1980, with a heartfelt tribute to “the future generations who likely will not experience that stunning color on the big screen.” To appreciate the splendor of Technicolor, one must look for specialized cinemas or museums capable of showcasing collections that preserve this art. For instance, in 2024, the Vista Theater in Los Angeles organized a month-long screening of films shot in I.B. Technicolor, selected from Quentin Tarantino’s personal collection.

A particular group of cinema enthusiasts, approximately 8% of men and 1% of women, have a unique motivation for choosing their films: color-blind individuals often perceive more subtle shades of color in a Technicolor movie than they do in everyday life. Take my word for it.

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2025-03-11 16:25