Kodak faces extinction whilst digital cameras profit from film nostalgia
How the photography pioneer that invented digital imaging lost the heritage game worth billions
Eastman Kodak invented the digital camera in 1975, then spent thirty years trying to kill it. Now the company faces extinction whilst film photography explodes around them.
The numbers are staggering. As Kodak warned this week it lacks funds to meet nearly $500 million in debt, the photographic film market soared to $2.86 billion in 2024, racing toward $4.03 billion by 2031. Film developing services boom from $530 million toward $750 million by 2032. Film camera sales, whilst smaller in absolute terms, show dramatic growth as manufacturers struggle to meet surging demand.
This isn't nostalgic dabbling. Twenty-three-year-old Sophie Gomez develops 350 rolls weekly in her Chicago basement lab, working until 3am to meet demand. Pentax's new film camera sold out so fast they stopped taking orders. Leica restarted manufacturing their legendary M6 at $5,900 per body. Film stocks face months-long backlogs.
Meanwhile, digital camera makers profit handsomely recreating the exact colour science Kodak pioneered. Sony's "Classic" modes attempt to mimic Kodak film. Canon's "Picture Styles" chase those legendary emulsions. Every major manufacturer includes film simulations as core selling points.
Yet Kodak—literally in the film business during film's biggest revival in decades—teeters toward bankruptcy with just $155 million cash against half a billion in looming obligations. Shares crashed 25% as markets absorbed their "substantial doubt about continuing as a going concern."
The timing feels cosmically cruel. Generation Z photographers, born into digital perfection, now hunt vintage film cameras and queue for developing services. The hashtag #FilmIsNotDead trends perpetually as young creators discover what their grandparents took for granted—grain, colour shifts, happy accidents that make images feel alive rather than algorithmically perfect.
How did the company that gave the world "Kodak moment" end up begging for survival whilst competitors monetise its legacy? The answer reveals brutal truths about corporate transformation and why heritage value evaporates precisely when companies need it most.
Fujifilm turned crisis into gold
The most damning comparison isn't Kodak's failure—it's how Fujifilm transformed identical circumstances into competitive advantage.
Both companies saw the same digital apocalypse approaching. Film demand would crater 90% within a decade. Both possessed legendary colour science from decades of film manufacturing. Only one weaponised that knowledge.
Fujifilm's breakthrough wasn't technological—it was conceptual. Instead of viewing 70 years of film expertise as obsolete, they reverse-engineered their own colour science into digital form. Engineers spent years recreating Velvia's saturated landscapes and Acros's smooth grain as mathematical algorithms.
The result transformed photography. Modern Fujifilm cameras offer 18 different film simulation modes, each precisely recreating legendary film stocks. Not Instagram filters—exact digital recreations of chemical processes that took decades to perfect. Photographers embraced this instantly. Why spend hours editing when your camera produces "film-perfect" images straight out?
These simulations became Fujifilm's primary competitive advantage, helping them capture significant mirrorless market share whilst rivals competed purely on technical specifications. The strategy worked because Fujifilm grasped a crucial insight: digital photography's clinical perfection created hunger for analog character.
Kodak made every wrong choice. They invented digital photography in 1975, then buried it for twenty years, terrified of cannibalising film profits. When digital became inevitable, they pursued expensive acquisitions instead of leveraging their greatest asset—heritage that made "Kodak moment" synonymous with photography itself.
The Japanese company recognised that heritage value requires constant reinvention. The American company tried to preserve it through protection.
The boom Kodak can't touch
Kodak's crisis unfolds during photography's strangest renaissance: both digital film simulations and actual film photography explode simultaneously.
The analog revival shocks industry veterans. Harman Technology reports 5% annual film growth globally. Companies resurrect discontinued stocks—Kodak brought back Ektachrome in 2017 after axing it in 2013. CineStill launched new emulsions. Chinese manufacturers flood markets with cheaper alternatives.
Young entrepreneurs build empires around this revival. Sophie Gomez serves customers through coffee shop drop-boxes, developing until 3am in her basement. Coastal Film Lab processed 16,000 rolls last year—"320 pounds of film." Mail-in services like The Darkroom and Citizens Photo serve national markets as local labs vanished.
Camera manufacturers scramble to meet demand. Pentax admitted they "under-estimated" their new half-frame camera and halted orders to increase production. These aren't limited editions—they're ongoing manufacturing runs targeting sustained demand that shows no signs of cooling.
Digital cameras simultaneously chase this analog aesthetic. Every major manufacturer includes film modes as core features. When photographers choose Fujifilm over Sony, they often cite film simulations as the deciding factor. The heritage Kodak created now drives billions in camera sales they can't access.
Kodak sits paralysed, watching both markets boom without them. They're literally in the film business during film's biggest revival in decades, yet facing extinction. The company that could profit from every aspect of this renaissance—actual film sales, digital heritage licensing, processing chemistry, colour science expertise—captures none of it.
Why heritage rescue fails
Could Sony license Kodak's legendary film names—Portra, Ektachrome, Tri-X—saving the pioneer whilst gaining competitive edge? The suggestion sounds logical until you examine why desperate companies make terrible partners.
Heritage licensing succeeds from strength, never weakness. The global licensing industry generates nearly $300 billion annually, but only for companies that aren't fighting extinction.
Kodak's desperation creates impossible contradictions. They need hundreds of millions immediately; licensing generates millions gradually. They need reliable partnerships; bankruptcy warnings destroy partner confidence. Most fatally, they need to preserve brand value whilst signalling existential crisis—a combination that destroys the very heritage licensing partners would pay for.
Consider the practical nightmare: Sony pays millions for "Kodak Color Science," then Kodak declares bankruptcy mid-partnership. Who owns the IP during liquidation? What quality control can a dying company provide? Why would premium brands associate with companies issuing "going concern" warnings?
Fujifilm succeeded because they developed simulations from stability in the 1990s, controlling everything from sensors to user experience. They never needed licensing because they became the competition.
Kodak would essentially license brand names to rivals who'd interpret those characteristics through their own capabilities. The results might carry Kodak logos but lack authentic connection to the chemistry that made those names legendary.
The licensing fantasy reveals a deeper delusion: that heritage value exists independently of companies that created it. Brand recognition means nothing without stewardship. Heritage dies when companies do—no licensing deal resurrects what's already lost through strategic failure.
The transformation trap
Kodak's crisis exposes corporate strategy's cruelest paradox: companies need heritage monetisation most when they're least capable of executing it.
This timing trap operates like quicksand. Financial distress consumes management attention. Crisis mentality forces short-term decisions that devalue long-term assets. Desperate negotiating positions yield terrible terms that further damage brand value.
Most insidiously, heritage value depends on perceived strength. Kodak's name still carries emotional resonance, but ongoing financial chaos corrodes those associations daily. Partners want reliability, not companies issuing bankruptcy warnings.
The photography industry context makes rescue harder. Sony holds 32% of the global mirrorless market; Canon dominates with 41%. Both pursue premium positioning focused on margins over volume. Heritage partnerships represent nice-to-have differentiators, not competitive necessities.
Kodak had this transformation window once. In 1975, when they invented digital photography, they could have pioneered the very transformation Fujifilm later mastered. They possessed technical knowledge, brand recognition, and financial resources to lead the industry they created.
Instead, they chose protection over innovation. That choice echoes through today's crisis—they didn't just miss the digital revolution, they invented it then abandoned it. They didn't just lose the heritage game, they never learned to play it.
The tragedy of perfect timing
Kodak's extinction during photography's dual renaissance represents corporate failure at its most spectacular.
Consider the absurdity: a film company facing bankruptcy during film's biggest revival in decades. Young photographers hunt vintage cameras faster than manufacturers can produce them. Digital makers compete fiercely to recreate Kodak's colour science. Film labs process millions of rolls with months-long backlogs. Processing services boom toward three-quarters of a billion dollars annually.
Kodak should profit from every angle—film sales, heritage licensing, processing chemistry, colour science expertise. Instead, entrepreneurs like Sophie Gomez build empires around products Kodak pioneered whilst the pioneer itself contemplates liquidation.
The broader lesson applies beyond photography: heritage value demands active cultivation, not passive protection. Companies must weaponise legacy before crisis forces desperation. Transformation windows close rapidly once financial problems begin.
Fujifilm proved heritage could become competitive advantage. Leica demonstrated mechanical precision justified premium pricing. Polaroid resurrected instant photography through careful stewardship. These companies recognised that legacy requires constant reinvention.
Kodak chose protection over innovation, preservation over transformation. When digital arrived, they suppressed it. When film declined, they abandoned it. When heritage became valuable, they couldn't access it. When film photography revived, they missed it entirely.
The ultimate irony: Kodak faces extinction whilst both analog photography and digital film simulations flourish around them. This dual boom could have supported their transformation—if executed from strength rather than attempted from weakness.
Heritage companies across industries should study this cautionary tale. Act decisively whilst retaining strategic options, not when survival becomes questionable. The photography industry will preserve its chemical legacy whilst advancing digital innovation. Whether the company that created much of that legacy survives to witness its extraordinary revival remains the cruelest question of all.