Between Silence and Spin: The Real Work of Free and Frank Advice

2/12/2024

Everyone talks about free and frank advice like we all know what it means.

We don’t.

And that’s a problem.

Richard Mulgan’s 2007 article, Truth in Government and the Politicization of Public Service Advice, is still one of the best efforts to name what happens when advice is manipulated to serve political ends.

He takes us through examples like the Children Overboard affair and the sexing up of intelligence about weapons of mass destruction: both episodes where ministers leaned on the public service to endorse a narrative, not just offer evidence.

Mulgan’s concern is with truth: how it gets bent, how neutrality gets blurred, and how the public record can be quietly distorted under pressure.

He’s right to worry. But reading his work now, in the middle of my own research into how free and frank advice is actually understood and practised in Aotearoa New Zealand, I think we need to push further.

Mulgan makes a useful distinction between factual advice and policy advice. The first can be true or false, the second is inherently shaped by values, trade-offs, bias and political judgment.

He’s also clear that politicisation isn’t always a direct act.

Often, officials self-censor. They anticipate what the minister wants. They edit themselves, not because they’ve been told to, but because they’ve learned the cues.

In that sense, politicisation is ambient. It sits in the air. You adjust to it without even realising.

That all resonates with what I’m hearing. Across 2023 and 2024 I’ve spoken with over 30 former and currrent prime ministers, ministers, chief executives, political advisers, academics and private sector and iwi leaders: all people who’ve lived inside the machinery of free and frank advice.

And what they describe doesn’t always match the textbook version. They talk about craft. About judgement. About choosing the right moment to speak, and knowing when to hold back. They talk about tension between speaking and listening as not just inevitable but necessary: something that, when managed well, strengthens decision-making. They talk about trust, not as a soft word, but as the essential condition for truth to be spoken and heard.

What I’m learning is that free and frank advice isn’t a product. It isn’t just a briefing or a cabinet paper. It’s a collaboration, a partnership. It’s built over time. It requires attention. And it’s most effective when both ministers and officials take responsibility for keeping it alive. While, yes, it must be grounded in expertise and evidence, it is also about timing, tone and context.

The officials often spoke of the wisdom that only comes with years of experience: when to push, how to frame a difficult truth, when silence speaks louder than words. One described it as knowing how to be bold without being reckless. Another called it the “strategic deployment of voice.” Suffice it to say, it is long way from the neutral, procedural and hero-moments that still dominates public discourse about what free and frank advice is.

It’s also clear that ministers aren’t just passive recipients of advice. They are clients: albeit demanding ones, with mandates, pressure and political realities that shape what they need and when they need it. They want advice that helps them deliver. Advice that is expert, tailored and alive to risk. They don’t want endless caveats. They want clarity. At the same time, the best ministers are the ones who create space for challenge and conflict. They are the elected officials who know that robust decisions require disagreement. And, that loyalty isn’t the same as obedience.

And that’s where I think Mulgan stops short. He’s right to warn us about the distortion of fact, and the misuse of official advice as political cover. But his solution leans heavily on the idea of protecting objectivity: through institutional safeguards, statutory independence, clearer boundaries. Those things matter. But they won’t be enough. Because what I’m hearing is that free and frank advice is not just a structure: it’s a living and evolving practice. One that depends on people, on habits, on courage, and on the ability to speak truth to power without losing your footing.

It is not the same as evidence. It is not quite the same as policy advice. It sits between them. It is shaped by political context but not owned by it. It carries a duty to the minister, yes, but also to the public, to the constitution, to future governments. It is both practical and principled. Both constrained and enabling. And while it may never be pure, it can still be honest.

That honesty is under pressure. Transparency, polarisation, digital scrutiny, and performative politics have changed the game. Officials today are working in environments where even well-intentioned advice can be taken out of context or used against them. That risk is real. But so is the responsibility. Because if free and frank advice fades—if it becomes safer to stay quiet, easier to flatter, harder to say what needs to be said—then the whole system weakens. Ministers lose the chance to see things clearly. Policy becomes less grounded. Mistakes go unchallenged.

So what even is free and frank advice? It’s not just about speaking up. It’s about knowing when, how, and why. It’s not just about loyalty to the government of the day: it’s about loyalty to democratic decision-making itself. And maybe, in the end, the most loyal act isn’t staying in line. It’s telling the truth, even when it costs.

And the most dangerous thing might be when no one does.