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Both entities had interesting histories. Established in 1929, Lintas had once been the in-house advertising department of packaged goods manufacturer Unilever (Lever International Advertising Services). It began to take on separate clients in the 1960s and was eventually spun off as a standalone agency, ending up in the Interpublic stable. Ammirati & Puris
was a New York creative agency set up in 1974 by Martin Puris, Ralph Ammirati and Julian AvRutick. Its most famous client was BMW, for whom Puris conceived the slogan ‘the ultimate driving machine'. Briefly owned by London's BMP in the eighties, the agency was once again independent by the time Interpublic got hold of it and merged it with Lintas.

Interpublic now possessed the three-agency structure that was becoming familiar throughout the industry; but neither Lowe nor Ammirati Puris Lintas was strong enough to offer a realistic alternative to the mighty McCann-Erickson. So Interpublic engineered another fusion, this time combining Lowe and APL to create Lowe Lintas. Then it went hunting again. It had set its sights on MacManus, the holding company of the DMB&B network – but that was snatched from under its nose by Leo Burnett. Finally, in March 2001, it acquired True North, parent to FCB Worldwide, for US $1.2 billion.

FCB was a direct link back to two of the most prestigious names in advertising history: Lord & Thomas and Albert Lasker (see
Chapter 1
, Pioneers of persuasion). In 1942, when Albert Lasker retired from advertising, he sold the Chicago-based Lord & Thomas agency to his three top managers: Emerson Foote in New York, Fairfax Cone in Chicago and Don Belding in Los Angeles. The following year, the agency was reborn as Foote, Cone & Belding. Over the next couple of decades it devised some of the most famous slogans in advertising: ‘Does she or doesn't she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure,' for Clairol hair colour; ‘You'll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent'; ‘Up, up and away with TWA'… Although its founders had long passed away by the time Interpublic acquired True North – the name of FCB's holding company – the agency had retained its prestige.

Unfortunately for Interpublic, however, the acquisition could not have come at a worse time. In 2001 the dotcom bubble burst and the events of 11 September sent the advertising market into a downward spiral. This hampered the restructuring process that was needed to bring True North inside the already unwieldy Interpublic group. In addition, FCB had just lost the DaimlerChrysler account, worth US $116 million. And to pile on the agony, flagship McCann client Coca-Cola (for whom the agency had penned ‘I'd like to teach the world to sing' in the 1970s) was beginning to pull out of the agency, placing work with smaller operations. It would be years before Interpublic was back on a fully even
keel, especially as it was soon buffeted by claims of accounting imbalances. While ‘neither admitting nor denying' the allegations, the group agreed to pay a civil penalty of US $12 million to the Securities and Exchange Commission (‘Interpublic, SEC reach $12 mil settlement',
Adweek
, 1 May 2008). The following year, just as its recovery seemed imminent, IPG fell into another global economic trough.

In 2011 it was forced to concede its third place in the list of the world's largest advertising holding groups to Publicis. Yet it is and will remain an entity to be reckoned with: 42,000 employees in more than 130 countries and net income of over US $551 million.

Publicis: readjusting the compass

One of Marcel Bleustein-Blanchet's challenges to Maurice Lévy had been to take the agency global. This proved an even more fraught expedition than he might have imagined. In 1988, Lévy discovered that Foote, Cone & Belding was looking for international partners in order to grow in Europe and Asia. Having been named Agency of the Year in 1986 by
Advertising Age
, largely on the strength of its Levi's and California Raisins campaigns, FCB looked like an attractive proposition to Lévy. But he recalls, ‘The initial approach came from FCB. They said, “We're interested in buying you.” I replied, “That's not a bad idea – but I'd prefer it if we bought you.” So rather than trying to buy one another, we sat down and worked out an alliance.'

With complex cross-shareholding arrangements and a coordinating body, the partnership was far more than a gentlemen's agreement. And for a while it worked for both parties, with the combined agencies netting billings of US $6 billion at the height of the union. ‘We spent several excellent and profitable years together,' says Lévy. ‘And Publicis learned a lot during that period.'

But however formal the partnership might have been, it was still dependent on the will of those concerned. This became clear when the FCB CEO with whom Lévy had negotiated the deal, Norman Brown, retired and was replaced by Bruce Mason. It transpired that Mason was not favourable to the alliance, and the relationship between the two agencies grew strained. When Publicis acquired a small advertising agency in the United States, FCB charged that the French agency was competing on its turf and claimed a breach of the original agreement.
After a painful legal wrangle, the partnership was dissolved in 1996. FCB was free to continue along its path as part of the holding company True North, with the results described above.

Publicis had grown in 1993 with the acquisition of the French network FCA-BMZ, which gave it offices in Germany, the UK, the Netherlands, Belgium and Italy, as well as additional strength in France. But the end of its agreement with True North meant that it had lost its American presence, and could make no claims to being global. ‘Like a woman can't be half pregnant, you're either global or you're not,' observes Lévy. ‘If you want to work for clients that are present everywhere, you have to be present everywhere too.'

To make up for lost time, Lévy set off on what he admits was ‘a crazy acquisitions trail'. ‘At one point we were moving into a new country every week,' he says. One valuable prize was the San Francisco creative agency Hal Riney & Partners, which had already repelled advances from Omnicom, WPP and Interpublic. But Lévy won over founder Hal P Riney by showing his appreciation for the creative work and taking a personal, rather than a corporate, approach to the deal. ‘From a more cynical point of view, I think it helped that we were a long way from San Francisco and less likely to interfere,' says Lévy. ‘The deal earned us a great deal of respect within the creative community – and also from advertisers – because they saw that we were committed to creativity.'

The creative agency Fallon McElligott was acquired shortly afterwards. And then Saatchi & Saatchi sailed onto the horizon.

The wounded giant of the eighties was striving to build a new image under its chairman Bob Seelert (a former General Mills executive) and flamboyant CEO Kevin Roberts. The agency had needed a colourful character like Roberts in order to break with the past. Roberts had discovered the power of brands while working for fashion designer Mary Quant in London in the 1960s. He'd then taken his experience to posts at Gillette, Procter & Gamble, Pepsi and Lion Nathan Breweries in New Zealand – where he was chief operating officer before accepting the invitation to run Saatchi in 1997.

With an accent that tumbles from Northern England to New York to New Zealand and back again – often in the same phrase – Roberts is one of those informal, switched on, global citizens in which the advertising industry seems to specialize. He's good at providing inspiration and controversy in equal measure. While working for Pepsi, he machine-gunned a Coke vending machine on stage during a conference. More
recently he created the concept of ‘Lovemarks' – brands that inspire loyalty beyond reason.

Back in 2000, Roberts and Seelert found themselves running a debt-laden, discredited agency that was unlikely to grow much further without a large injection of cash. (By that stage, Saatchi & Saatchi had been de-merged from Cordiant, the holding company it had shared with Bates. Cordiant and Bates later ended up in the hands of WPP, where they were dissolved into other parts of the operation.) Saatchi enjoyed an unconsummated flirtation with the Japanese agency Dentsu and rejected a proposition from WPP, which was regarded as too controlling. The answer, then, perhaps lay with Publicis.

The dance started on another foot, when Publicis, Saatchi and Bates began discussing a merger of their media operations. Lévy was cool on that deal, but he instigated behind-the-scenes talks with Bob Seelert about the future of Saatchi & Saatchi – starting with a discreet breakfast meeting at London's Connaught Hotel. The informal discussions about a potential fusion were continuing when Lévy was approached by Young & Rubicam, which was trying to stave off a takeover by WPP and wondered if it could throw in its lot with Publicis. But Publicis was considered an unlikely white knight for Y&R – the latter handled the Ford account, which would have clashed bumpers with key Publicis client Renault. It seems that even Lévy took his negotiations with Saatchi more seriously. ‘I knew that once news of my talks with [Y&R] became public, my conversation with Saatchi & Saatchi would turn into something more concrete – which proved to be the case.'

Lévy also won the support of Kevin Roberts, who after a crucial meeting decided that he trusted the Frenchman with the Saatchi brand and those who worked for the company. The US $1.9 billion deal was completed on 20 June 2000. Now there could be no question that the Publicis Groupe was a global player. ‘There were three excellent reasons for acquiring Saatchi,' says Lévy. ‘It was still an excellent brand with a reputation for creativity. I had a great deal of respect for Bob Seelert and Kevin Roberts. And finally, it gave us instant global status: the name Saatchi & Saatchi is known everywhere, all over the world.'

A year and a half later, Lévy found to his surprise that he was still hungry. For months he'd been reading in the press that there were now two tiers of global communications groups – and his was in the second tier. ‘To me, the insinuation was “top class”, “second class”,' says Lévy.
‘If we wanted to enter the top tier – to become “top class” – we needed to make another acquisition.'

Lévy had previously had some informal contact with Roger Haupt, CEO of Bcom3. As you'll remember, Bcom3 was the awkwardly named holding company of Leo Burnett and the MacManus Group, in which Dentsu had taken a 22 per cent stake. Many at Leo Burnett felt that the name sounded temporary – as if it was a step on the way to someplace else. That place turned out to be Publicis.

Soon after 11 September 2001, Lévy resumed contact with Haupt to discuss the potential for a merger. He recalls that they met in ‘strange, unlikely places, like the Hilton at Heathrow Airport, with no lawyers or financiers present' to draw up the deal, which was then presented to Dentsu. The Japanese agency gave its accord and the US $3 billion deal was announced in March 2002. During several meetings with staff, Lévy mustered all his charm and tact to reassure Leo Burnett employees that their new owner would not attempt to interfere with the agency's unique heritage.

The acquisition turned Publicis into the fourth largest advertising group worldwide. At the time of writing it sits at number three, with an annual net income of US $791 million.

Havas: child of the information age

The modern history of Havas ended with a boardroom battle. Its ancient history began with a secret mission.

Charles Louis Havas was born in Rouen on 5 July 1783 into a wealthy Jewish family of Hungarian descent. His father had a number of business interests, including a small local newspaper. As described by Jacques Séguéla in his book on the history of Havas,
Tous Ego
(2005), Charles became in his turn a notable merchant, banker, publisher and wheeler-dealer – but he seemed to lose fortunes as quickly as he made them.

In 1861, Charles departed on a mysterious journey. Nobody knows where he went or why – there has been some speculation that it was a spying or diplomatic mission (or a mixture of both) for the king, Louis-Philippe. ‘I am going on a long and dangerous journey,' he wrote to his sister-in-law. ‘Should I succeed, I will make everyone happy; if not, God knows what we will become.'

While the details of his voyage remain murky, the mission seems to have provided the capital for his nascent press agency. He may also have recruited several foreign correspondents along the way. On his return he began translating news items from the overseas press and gathering dispatches from the stock exchange. He forged contacts with businessmen and politicians. But Havas was more than a prototype freelance reporter. His rise coincided with the first information boom: Louis-Philippe was warily tolerant of a free press and by 1835 there were 600 newspapers and periodicals in France, all hungry for the kind of information Havas could provide. In addition, Havas's political connections led him to become the almost exclusive diffuser of government information, creating an awkwardly cosy relationship between press and state.

In 1835 the Havas agency was installed in a three-room, 80-square-metre space at what is today 51 rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau. The agency's news dispatches were crowned with the words VITE ET BIEN (‘Fast and good'), indicating that Havas had a flair for self-promotion. In order to deliver on his promise he made use of every available form of information technology, from carrier pigeons to the brand new electric telegraph. By 1840, the agency was publishing a range of bulletins for politicians, bankers and industrialists, as well as providing publicity services for many of the same.

Havas died on 21 May 1858, succeeded at the head of the company by his two sons. Charles Auguste Havas rapidly assumed the leadership role. Shortly after his father's death, he bought a stake in the newspaper advertising sales house Société Générale des Annonces (SGA), which would come under the full control of the agency in 1914. The slow swing of Havas away from news and towards advertising had begun.