A Chemical Reminiscence: Softgels Revisited

Jack Stocker in his New Orleans home after Hurricane Katrina. Photo by Hustine Szymala.

By Jack Stocker

“The Pill, the Tablet, and the Capsule,” an article that appeared in the Summer 2004 issue of Chemical Heritage (pp. 12–13, 42–44), reminded me of my years (1948–1950) as a control chemist for Gelatin Products, a subdivision of the R. P. Scherer Corporation. That article, by Stanley Scheindlin, provided an accurate description of Scherer’s patented rotary-die softgel process for forming capsules, but I would like to offer my own memories.

As noted in the earlier article, R. P. Scherer “manufactured softgels for any company wanting to market a product in that form, but never leased their equipment to other firms.” Scherer’s method depended on combining two materials: the gel mass for the shell, formed by the die, and the fill containing the proper dose of the active contents. The firm retained complete control of the rotary-die method by continuous patenting of their improvements. As essentially the only manufacturers, they also controlled type and quantity of the contents. Since it was simply not practical to offer all the choices that potential buyers might want, Scherer’s Gelatin Products division selected the most frequently requested combinations and limited production to them. As a result, a product marketed by Sears and the same product put out by any of the other big pharmaceutical houses came from identical formulations. To individualize each company’s purchase, however, the firm relied on a system of striping—using different colors and spacing for different customers.

As quality-control chemists, my colleagues and I received samples of the gelatin capsules, weighed them with their contents, slit them lengthwise or around the circumference with a razor, and used a wash bottle to transfer the total contents to a beaker. Reweighing the empty capsule halves provided the weight of the empty capsule; subtraction provided the weight of its contents. The consistency of the manufacturing process was impressive: the weights for a series of coverings or contents would almost invariably agree to three figures. One had to be careful about disposal of the gelatin coatings after analysis, however: gelatin-plugged drains were common.

Pharmaceuticals were not the only products handled by the rotary-die process. Among the diversity produced were the following:

• A capsule perhaps 2 inches long and ⅜ inches in diameter with a nipple at one end, containing just enough lighter fluid to fill a Zippo lighter.

• A very large capsule about 4 inches long and perhaps 1 inch wide containing ethyl ether. It was used as a starting assist for diesel motors on cold days.

• A medium sphere (about 1ｽ inches in diameter) containing chicken fat for making good hearty soups. The entire capsule was added; it dissolved in the heat of preparation and provided not only the chicken fat but also its soluble, protein-containing exterior.

• Do you remember the Rosies and Posies? These were smooth, spherical capsules, one of which contained the adhesive and the other the solvent for attaching (and releasing) the brassiere cups that served the more daring in their appearances on the beach.

There were also the very small capsules containing the now-outlawed red dye that accompanied a lard-white slab of oleomargarine when purchased. The dye could be kneaded into the slab—a labor-intensive process—to produce a yellow mass that physically resembled butter. (In fact, butter itself can range from lard-white to red, depending on the animal’s feed.) For those who are unaware of the history of oleomargarine’s lack of acceptability in a dairy-controlled society, some background. At one time, as I remember, it had to be colored green if it were to be sold. This unenlightened time was eventually succeeded by the legal requirement that margarine pats be cut into triangles for restaurant service. At long last, during my Scherer employ, it was acceptable merely to add the statement on the menu, “We serve oleomargarine.”

On margarine capsules hangs a particular incident in my R. P. Scherer employ. There were eports of “leakers”—capsules that had broken in the margarine package, rendering it unsalable. I was assigned the responsibility of developing the necessary testing equipment and appropriately sampling and evaluating the “break strength” of multiple millions of such capsules. In a large warehouse-like room perhaps 100 feet long and 20 feet high, a complete floor-to-ceiling wall was stacked with large cartons filled with these capsules. I designed a moderately elaborate metal device that would provide measurements to within a gram and took it rather proudly to the company machinist to produce. I found out a few days later that the company had grown impatient with my apparent lack of activity and had proceeded as follows. Take a double-pan balance and place a Petri dish on both pans, a 500-gram weight in the right petri dish, and one capsule, with the rotary-die seam carefully set vertically, in the other dish. Follow by smooshing the capsule with the bottom of a handheld 250-milliliter beaker. If the capsule breaks, mark the break strength as less than 500 grams. If it does not break, add a 100-gram weight to the right dish and repeat. I took over the operation and for perhaps the next 30 days went home with my lab coat and all other possible surfaces stained a deep red-orange—and the old adage “Keep it simple!” ringing in my ears.

The wide diversity of softgel products was matched by the wide spectrum of vivid colors in which they were made. The products were eye-catching and a pleasure to view. Practically everybody in the lab had a bottle, typically a widemouthed gallon-sized one, that held examples of the excess samples for analysis on his or her desk. These would become stuck together after a few months and have to be discarded in favor of a fresh sampling.

During the time I was there Scherer was also developing a hand held, through-the-skin injection device to replace the traditionally feared hypodermic needle injection. It was to be called Hypospray, and diabetics requiring a daily injection of insulin were the
primary target. In those days Hypospray consisted of an instrument 6 inches long resembling a flashlight. One end was held tightly against the skin, with the thumb on a button on the other end; when pressed, the button released a coiled, powerful spring that created pressure high enough to push the proper dose of insulin through the skin. Lab personnel were available as guinea pigs. After the investment of a number of millions of dollars, and despite interest expressed by the military, the project was abandoned—at least during my employ—for unknown reasons.

In 1950 R. P. Scherer lost some of its basic patents, and a number of its employees, including me, were laid off. I took my severance pay and went to the Mardi Gras (and to Tulane for my Ph.D.). I’ve never really left New Orleans since—even now.