The advertising business lost one of its great legends May 7 when Joe Fitz-Morris, founding editor of DM News and Advertising News of New York, died at age 89.
Fellow editors had one question when they heard the news: How would Fitz-Morris have played the story? He certainly wouldn't have wanted anything mushy.
A self-invented man in the American grain, Joseph Malcolm Morris was born in 1918 in New York. He graduated from high school in 1934 and served in the Pacific Theater in World War II.
At war's end, the 27-year-old infantry captain found himself managing Tokyo's Imperial Hotel, where senior U.S. officers were billeted during the occupation. One night, he upheld American honor by drinking a Russian general under the table.
Episodes like that became the basis for “The Wise Bamboo” (Lippincott, 1953), Fitz-Morris' comedic account of his time at the hotel.
Returning to the states in 1952 with his wife Fran, the daughter of Gen. William F. Campbell, Fitz-Morris wrote short stories for Collier's and The Saturday Evening Post, then worked for ad agencies.
But he was too much of a contrarian to tell clients what they wanted to hear, so he moved into journalism, eventually becoming the founding editor of AdWeek forerunner Advertising News of New York.
Among his big hits at ANNY was a column explaining why he was adding the Fitz to his name. The Advertising Committee of B'nai B'rith asked him to serve, apparently believing he was Jewish. Fitz wrote that he wasn't, and that he would undergo an examination to prove it.
In 1979, Fitz-Morris was hired by Adrian Courtenay to edit the start-up DM News. Soon, the DM industry was being regaled with stories about revolts, controversies and eruptions.
One Fitz-Morris classic was his open letter to the late consumer reporter Betty Furness:
“Dear Madam:
“How do you like being on junk television?
“On Jan. 24, you aired a report on telemarketing in which you referred to ‘junk mail’ and ‘junk phone calls.’
“When are you going to report on your own medium?”
Fitz-Morris was an inspirational boss and a firm upholder of the line between editorial and advertising. When a reporter got a scoop, his eyes would twinkle and he would hand out the ultimate compliment: “That's juicy.”
And once the story was published, Fitz-Morris backed reporters to the hilt. One time a source called to retract a statement he'd made minutes after the paper had gone to press. When told by the reporter, Fitz-Morris thought about it for a moment and then said, “He's lying.”
Perhaps Fitz-Morris' greatest moment came in 1986 when DM News exposed the fact that DMDNY's directors each received a paid salary of $20,000 a year and other perks. This revelation upset volunteers who served the conference.
“The story is not shocking,” Fitz-Morris wrote in an editorial. “There is no question of wrongdoing involved. All the individuals are honorable men and all are high above suspicion.
“But…the situation is surprising.”
Fitz-Morris was merciless when the late Pete Hoke, publisher of Direct Marketing magazine, resigned from the DMDNY board. What irked Fitz-Morris was Hoke's explanation in The Friday Report newsletter about why he'd never reported the payment arrangement: “This reporter muzzled.” Fitz-Morris wrote: “We can't understand ‘This reporter muzzled.’
“Any self-respecting reporter would bite the hand that tried to muzzle it.”
He also scoffed at Hoke's assertion that by breaking the story, DM News freed him to speak out.
“DM News did not free Hoke to speak out. He was always free to speak out.
“DMDNY is not a secret society in which blood brothers vow never to reveal the organization's dealings.
“That sort of thing belongs in a mythical association called The Mafia.
“Anyone who has been steeped in the world of journalism can tell you that this is a truism:
“Any reporter who allows himself to be muzzled will eventually find his career in a shroud.”
Joe Fitz-Morris never did. His job at DM News done, he stepped down aseditor later that year.
When asked how he was doing in retirement, he invariably gave the same answer he offered during his career: “60/40,” never saying what the numbers meant.
