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Jimenez has competition, including one of the best-funded startups ever: Seattle-based Juno Therapeutics, which counts Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos among its backers. But that’s to be expected when the potential is so staggering–and tangible. “Anybody that gets associated with this technology and sees what this technology has been able to do really believes they’re participating in something that’s historic,” says Jimenez. “I look at it and think about the potential breakthrough that it could be. You could be looking at a transformation of the treatment of cancer over the next 20 to 30 years.”
On paper Jimenez seems an unlikely backer for one of the most revolutionary medical breakthroughs any company has ever tried to develop. He’s a marketer by trade who, until he came to Novartis in 2007, managed brands like Clorox and Peter Pan Peanut Butter before running the North America business for Heinz, the ketchupmaker. But a seat on the board of AstraZeneca got him interested in selling products that saved people’s lives. He was brought in to run Novartis’ $4 billion consumer products division, home to Triaminic and Theraflu, but was rapidly promoted to run drug marketing and then, in a surprise to everyone, made the chief executive.
Jimenez’s predecessor, Daniel Vasella, saw in him someone who could pilot Novartis through what was going to be a tough time. On Jimenez’s watch, manufacturing problems temporarily shut down plants in consumer and animal health. By leaning on Novartis’ generic-drug business, the world’s second largest, and its eye care division, Alcon, Jimenez kept sales and earnings stable, at around $58 billion and $9 billion. Novartis also benefited from a 33% stake in Roche, its rival, with $31 billion in oncology sales. He fixed the plants, and Novartis’ stock has significantly outperformed the S&P 500 over five years–a total return of 176% versus 139%–and outpaced the American Stock Exchange’s pharmaceutical index to boot.
But Jimenez’s job wasn’t just to make numbers, it was to protect a legacy. Vasella’s proudest moment was the decision to ignore his own marketing people and instead listen to an Oregon oncologist named Brian Druker, who was begging him to develop a cancer drug called Gleevec–Vasella even wrote a book about it. Gleevec became a breakthrough, helping almost every patient with a particular rare blood cancer, chronic myelogenous leukemia. Patients stay on it for years, and it is so valuable that Novartis has quadrupled its annual price from $24,000 per year in 2001 to more than $90,000 today. Even the stingiest insurers pay, though some patients get it free.
What the marketers thought was a $400 million drug, Jimenez notes, is now a $4.6 billion one, and Novartis’ top seller to boot. The lesson: Worrying about marketing, instead of whether drugs work, is bad for business. “We keep our commercial people away from key decisions that are being made in research at an early stage,” Jimenez says. “Whereas another company might have commercial people in there looking at business opportunity or market size, we have said we don’t want that.”
Gleevec literally changed the very architecture of the company’s Basel headquarters, on the banks of the Rhine where Switzerland abuts France and Germany. A drab manufacturing campus was reimagined like a college, with sidewalk cafes, benches to facilitate conversations and a glass building designed by Frank Gehry. Vasella moved its research headquarters to Cambridge, Mass., a block from MIT, in a converted candy factory with a stunning skylight and six-story atrium.
On paper Jimenez seems an unlikely backer for one of the most revolutionary medical breakthroughs any company has ever tried to develop. He’s a marketer by trade who, until he came to Novartis in 2007, managed brands like Clorox and Peter Pan Peanut Butter before running the North America business for Heinz, the ketchupmaker. But a seat on the board of AstraZeneca got him interested in selling products that saved people’s lives. He was brought in to run Novartis’ $4 billion consumer products division, home to Triaminic and Theraflu, but was rapidly promoted to run drug marketing and then, in a surprise to everyone, made the chief executive.
Jimenez’s predecessor, Daniel Vasella, saw in him someone who could pilot Novartis through what was going to be a tough time. On Jimenez’s watch, manufacturing problems temporarily shut down plants in consumer and animal health. By leaning on Novartis’ generic-drug business, the world’s second largest, and its eye care division, Alcon, Jimenez kept sales and earnings stable, at around $58 billion and $9 billion. Novartis also benefited from a 33% stake in Roche, its rival, with $31 billion in oncology sales. He fixed the plants, and Novartis’ stock has significantly outperformed the S&P 500 over five years–a total return of 176% versus 139%–and outpaced the American Stock Exchange’s pharmaceutical index to boot.
But Jimenez’s job wasn’t just to make numbers, it was to protect a legacy. Vasella’s proudest moment was the decision to ignore his own marketing people and instead listen to an Oregon oncologist named Brian Druker, who was begging him to develop a cancer drug called Gleevec–Vasella even wrote a book about it. Gleevec became a breakthrough, helping almost every patient with a particular rare blood cancer, chronic myelogenous leukemia. Patients stay on it for years, and it is so valuable that Novartis has quadrupled its annual price from $24,000 per year in 2001 to more than $90,000 today. Even the stingiest insurers pay, though some patients get it free.
What the marketers thought was a $400 million drug, Jimenez notes, is now a $4.6 billion one, and Novartis’ top seller to boot. The lesson: Worrying about marketing, instead of whether drugs work, is bad for business. “We keep our commercial people away from key decisions that are being made in research at an early stage,” Jimenez says. “Whereas another company might have commercial people in there looking at business opportunity or market size, we have said we don’t want that.”
Gleevec literally changed the very architecture of the company’s Basel headquarters, on the banks of the Rhine where Switzerland abuts France and Germany. A drab manufacturing campus was reimagined like a college, with sidewalk cafes, benches to facilitate conversations and a glass building designed by Frank Gehry. Vasella moved its research headquarters to Cambridge, Mass., a block from MIT, in a converted candy factory with a stunning skylight and six-story atrium.
