How Power Changes Hands: Transition and Succession in Government (Transforming Government)

Understanding Governance series General Editor: R.A.W. Rhodes, Professor of Government, University of Tasmania and Distinguished Professor of Political Science, Australian National University Understanding Governance encompasses all theoretical approaches to the study of government and governance in advanced industrial democracies. It has three longstanding objectives: 1. To understand the process of change; 2. To develop theory to explain why change occurs; and 3. To set this change and its causes in comparative perspective. The series includes titles that adopt post-structural and post-modern approaches to political science and challenge such notions as hollowing-out, governance, core executives, policy networks and the new institutionalism. It also publishes material with traditional institutional and historical approaches to such topics as prime ministers, ministers, the civil service and government departments. All titles meet not only the conventional standard of theoretical and empirical rigour but also seek to address topics of broad current interest that open the field of study to new ideas and areas of investigation.

Titles include: Paul ’t Hart, John Uhr (editors) HOW POWER CHANGES HANDS Transition and Succession in Government Robert Hazell, Ben Worthy and Mark Glover THE IMPACT OF THE FREEDOM ON INFORMATION ACT ON CENTRAL GOVERNMENT IN THE UK Does FOI Work? Ann Scott ERNEST GOWERS Plain Words and Forgotten Deeds Kevin Theakston AFTER NUMBER 10 Former Prime Ministers in British Politics

Titles previously published in the Transforming Government series include: Simon Bulmer, Martin Burch, Caitríona Carter, Patricia Hogwood and Andrew Scott BRITISH DEVOLUTION AND EUROPEAN POLICY-MAKING Transforming Britain to Multi-Level Governance Nicholas Deakin and Richard Parry THE TREASURY AND SOCIAL POLICY The Contest for Control of Welfare Strategy Neil C. M. Elder and Edward C. Page ACCOUNTABILITY AND CONTROL IN NEXT STEPS AGENCIES Oliver James THE EXECUTIVE AGENCY REVOLUTION IN WHITEHALL Public Interest Versus Bureau-Shaping Perspectives

David Marsh, David Richards and Martin J. Smith CHANGING PATTERNS OF GOVERNANCE IN THE UNITED KINGDOM Reinventing Whitehall? Iain McLean THE FISCAL CRISIS OF THE UNITED KINGDOM Edward C. Page and Vincent Wright (editors) FROM THE ACTIVE TO THE ENABLING STATE The Changing Role of Top Officials in European Nations Hugh Pemberton POLICY LEARNING AND BRITISH GOVERNANCE IN THE 1960s B. Guy Peters, R. A. W. Rhodes and Vincent Wright (editors) ADMINISTERING THE SUMMIT Administration of the Core Executive in Developed Countries R. A. W. Rhodes (editor) TRANSFORMING BRITISH GOVERNMENT Volume One: Changing Institutions Volume Two: Changing Roles and Relationships David Richards NEW LABOUR AND THE CIVIL SERVICE Reconstituting the Westminster Model Martin J. Smith THE CORE EXECUTIVE IN BRITAIN Kevin Theakston LEADERSHIP IN WHITEHALL Kevin Theakston (editor) BUREAUCRATS AND LEADERSHIP Patrick Weller, Herman Bakvis and R. A. W. Rhodes (editors) THE HOLLOW CROWN Countervailing Trends in Core Executives

Understanding Governance Series Standing Order ISBN 978-0-333-71580-2 (outside North America only) You can receive future titles in this series as they are published by placing a standing order. Please contact your bookseller or, in case of difficulty, write to us at the address below with your name and address, the title of the series and the ISBN quoted above. Customer Services Department, Macmillan Distribution Ltd, Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS, England

How Power Changes Hands Transition and Succession in Government Edited By Paul ’t Hart Professor of Political Science and Professor of Public Administration, Australian National University and Utrecht University, the Netherlands

and John Uhr Professor of Public Policy, Crawford School of Economics and Government, Australian National University

Editorial matter, selection, introduction and conclusion © Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 2011 All remaining chapters © respective authors 2011 All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. The authors have asserted their rights to be identified as the authors of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. First published 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21 6XS. Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010. Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has companies and representatives throughout the world. Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries ISBN 978-0-230-24296-8

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Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe, Chippenham and Eastbourne

Contents List of Figures

vii

List of Tables

viii

Acknowledgements

ix

Notes on Contributors 1

x

Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr

Part I

Understanding Transitions

1

21

2

Ruling Elite Transitions in Australia and the United States John Higley and Jan Pakulski

23

3

Managers or Messiahs? Prime Ministerial Leadership and the Transition to Government James Walter

37

4

Establishing Prime Ministerial Leadership Style in Opposition Wayne Errington

55

5

Bicameralism and the Dynamics of Contested Transitions John Uhr, Stanley Bach and Louis Massicotte

73

6

Westminster Norms and Caretaker Conventions: Australian and New Zealand Transition Debates Marian Simms

94

Part II

Understanding Successions

109

7

Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat: A Comparative Analysis of Party Leader Successions Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart

111

8

Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases William Cross and André Blais

133

9

The Firing Line: When and Why Do Prime Ministers Fire Ministerial Colleagues? Keith Dowding and Elizabeth McLeay

157

Power Consolidation in Leadership Change Contexts: A Social Identity Perspective Emina Subasˇic´ and Katherine J. Reynolds

174

10

v

vi Contents

11

Building Trust at the Beginning of a New Leadership Role: The Role of Learning and Collaboration Paul Atkins

191

12

‘The Tideless Pond that Seemed Waiting for Me’: The Afterlife of Australian Prime Ministers Paul Strangio

208

13

How Power Changes Hands: Concluding Reflections Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr

230

Index

246

List of Figures 7.1 10.1 11.1

Party leader longevity distribution Social identity dynamics of leadership consolidation preceding and following transition and succession Short-term demands versus long-term interests

vii

113 182 196

List of Tables 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4

Strategic choice for leadership aspirants and new leaders Distribution of aspirant/new leader types Succession outcomes for successor types A typology of incumbent leaders’ positions vis-à-vis succession challenges Primary and secondary succession triggers Methods by which party leaders may be removed (N = 22) Who can remove the leader? Relative security of party leaders Leaders formally removed (1965–2007)

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118 119 119 122 126 139 143 147 148

Acknowledgements Many of the papers in this book were first presented at the Public Leadership Workshop, which we have hosted annually at the Australian National University between 2007 and 2009 and which now continues to be organized by other members of the network of Australia and New Zealand based scholars that was thus created. We are grateful to the workshop sponsors: the Australia New Zealand School of Government and its dean professor Allan Fels; the Research School of Social Sciences and the Crawford School of Economics and Government, including the Parliamentary Studies Centre, all at the ANU. And we express our thanks to workshop participants for intellectual support, and hope that this volume will be followed by many other products of this exciting interdisciplinary venture. As ever, Karen Tindall provided essential editorial support, as did Mark Fabian on the index. Canberra, November 2010 Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr

ix

Notes on Contributors

Editors Paul ’t Hart is professor of political science at the Research School of Social Sciences, Australian National University, and professor of public administration, Utrecht School of Governance, Utrecht University. John Uhr is Professor of Public Policy, Crawford School of Economics and Government, Australian National University.

Contributors Paul Atkins is an associate professor at the Crawford School of Economics and Government, Australian National University. Stanley Bach, formerly of the Congressional Research Service, Washington, is on the panel of advisors at the Parliamentary Studies Centre, Australian National University. André Blais is professor in the Department of Political Science at the Université de Montréal. William Cross is the Hon. Dick and Ruth Bell Chair for the Study of Canadian Parliamentary Democracy in the Department of Political Science at Carleton University. Keith Dowding is professor of political science at the Research School of Social Science and director of research at the College of Arts and Social Science, Australian National University. Wayne Errington is lecturer in politics at the School of History and Politics, University of Adelaide. John Higley is professor of government and sociology at the Departments of Government and Sociology, University of Texas at Austin. Matthew Laing is a doctoral candidate at the School of Politics and International Relations in the Research School of Social Sciences, Australian National University. x

Notes on Contributors xi

Louis Massicotte is professor in the Department of Political Science at University Laval, Canada. Elizabeth McLeay is professor in comparative politics at the School of History, Philosophy, Political Science and International Relations, Victoria University of Wellington. Jan Pakulski is professor of sociology at the School of Sociology and Social Work, University of Tasmania. Katherine Reynolds is an Australian Research Fellow at the Department of Psychology, Australian National University. Marian Simms is head of school at the School of History, Heritage and Society, Faculty of Arts and Education, Deakin University. Paul Strangio is a senior lecturer in Australian politics in the School of Political and Social Inquiry, Monash University. Emina Subasˇic´ is an ARC Australian Post Doctoral Fellow at the Department of Psychology, Australian National University. James Walter is professor of political science in the School of Political and Social Inquiry, Monash University.

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1 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr

Power changes hands The peaceful transition of power from one set of hands to another is one of the basic features of a working democracy. The simple image is of a new pair of hands replacing a former pair or indeed collection of hands, each set of hands able and willing to hold the reins of power, or in a more contemporary image, exercise the levers of power. In some eyes, the levers are almost neutral instruments of power which lend themselves equally to any set of authorized hands. In democratic systems, authorization involves democratic processes of election and representation, with popular support (and not mechanical competence) taken as the primary test of eligibility to exercise power. For all their many institutional complexities, democratic governments are designed around relationships between an evolving apparatus of governed instruments (‘the machinery of government’) and competition among potential governing hands (‘left hands’ with a bias towards hands-on government; ‘right hands’ with a bias towards hands-off government; both requiring the power of ‘many hands’ to set the levers in their preferred position). Political transitions occur in every type of political regime but they are events of high public value in democratic regimes: access to governing power being transferred through electoral processes from one set of hands to another. Popular elections are opportunities for democratic voters to pass judgement on their elected representatives and to determine whether the current crop of representatives should be replaced by another crop of representatives. Peaceful transitions are one very important test of a democracy. Regimes of representative democracy operate through regular elections which frequently give rise not only to government transitions but also to office-holder successions in the ranks of government and further down. With every change in the electorate’s choice, there are transitions in and out of elected office which in turn trigger significant successions and turnovers in the unelected offices (bureaucratic, military, judicial) 1

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established under the control of government to carry out important public services. These movements in and out of government are driven by the logic of the electoral process, which holds that those holding the powers of government get their democratic authority from the electorate. Thus, democracies are sustained by a commitment to electoral processes which themselves allow for variety and change as voters register their evolving preferences for those individuals and political parties which should next hold the powers of government. In this volume, we approach ‘transitions’ generally in terms of the arrival of an alternative set of hands ready to replace the existing team and to exercise the levers of power. So too we think of ‘successions’ as successive replacements of individual power-holders by others, which can be part of such transitions but can also comprise individual retirements, sackings or withingovernment portfolio reshuffles, mergers and splits. We can begin to think of transitions as typically emerging from interparty competition (oppositions replacing governing parties or coalitions) and of successions as emerging from intraparty competition (e.g. factional rivalries and leadership struggles). Both types of change are innovations, even though both can be driven by quite conservative political and social commitments. Both types of innovation change the personnel of leaders exercising the relevant powers and both have the potential to change the style of leadership exercised by ‘the new team’. In this volume, we study their antecedents, dynamics and effects.

Turnover at the top: Transitions and successions Transitions: Characteristics and challenges In this volume, we use the term transition to denote a change in the party or coalition that holds government. Transitions imply that multiple ministers or political appointees are rotating at the same time, and that all or many of the newcomers experience a shift from campaigning, waging opposition or holding non-political offices to running executive government. Transitions imply that new political bargains about the content and priorities of government policy are being struck. They entail a period of uncertainty and discontinuity for the swathe of departments, agencies and stakeholders involved in shaping and implementing public policy, as well as for the media and the general public. In democracies transitions are usually triggered by elections. In parliamentary democracies with majoritarian electoral systems, the election result tends to be decisive in determining who will govern and who will be in opposition in the next parliament. The new prime minister is invariably the leader of the party with the largest number of seats in the lower house. New governments can be sworn in quickly, as portfolio allocation tends to be a relatively straightforward, mostly intraparty affair. In systems with proportional representation, the number of parties in parliament tends to

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 3

be larger. No single party achieves a parliamentary majority and coalitions between parties tend to be more fluid and opportunistic. Often, intense, sometimes protracted post-election coalition negotiations are necessary, and outcomes are not always easy to predict. In presidential systems, there is effectively a situation of divided government, in which one party may end up holding the presidency (and thus executive government) but not controlling a parliamentary majority, and vice versa. To some extent therefore, dual (executive and parliamentary) or even triple (if lower and upper house both see shifting majorities) power shifts may result from elections. However in this volume we will use the term transition exclusively for changes in party control of executive government. Though by far the most prevalent, elections are not the only mechanism by which transitions may come about. Extraordinary circumstances such as war may bring about shifts towards a more inclusive ‘national government’ transcending the usual government-opposition divide. This was the case in many countries after the outbreak of World War II. Conversely, when relations within the governing coalition suffer a break down in mid-term, reconfigurations may occur. Parties may withdraw from the coalition while others continue (sometimes as a minority government) or co-opt new partners among the hitherto non-governing parties to join into a new coalition. Voters may not be given a say in such cases until much later. Examples of unstable coalition governments experiencing frequent, non-electorally induced transitions have abounded in post-war Italian, Belgian and, to a lesser extent, Dutch politics. Finally, in cases of exceptionally paralytic standoffs between the executive and the parliament, in some countries the head of state might make a tie-breaking decision that implies a standing down of the incumbent head of government and their party/coalition, and the imposition of some form of caretaker regime paving the way for new elections. Such situations are by definition extremely rare, and bound to be deeply controversial (as in the case of the sacking by the Governor-General of the Australian Labor Party government led by Gough Whitlam in November 1975). In semipresidential systems in particular, dissolutions of parliament by the head of state can be part and parcel of power struggles between the head of state and the parliamentary majority induced by constitutional ambiguity concerning the scope and limits of their respective responsibilities (Elgie, 1999). As in all these cases significant changes in party control of executive government eventually occur, they are all encompassed in our definition of transitions. The term ‘democratic transitions’ usually refers to the historical process of regime change managed by non-democratic regimes moving along the path towards a more openly democratic future. South Africa is a good recent example involving that titan of transition, Nelson Mandela, bringing fundamental change to a traditional political system with a history of minority white rule over an increasingly-unwilling non-white majority. Democratic

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transitions are tested by their degree of sustainability, which attracts the related term ‘democratic consolidation’: the effectiveness of such regime transitions is measured not simply by the appointment of a Mandela figure to the top political office, but by the pace and extent of ‘consolidation’ of various democratic attributes, such as regular elections, subsequent changes of government, rulers’ respect for the separation of powers, officials’ respect for limited government, the community’s respect for the rule of law, and the slow and steady extension of dispersed public powers in the context of constitutional checks and balances. Does ‘power’ really ‘change hands’ when a change of government (i.e. a transition) takes place? There is no straightforward answer to this question. For some, all office-seeking parties in a democracy are part and parcel of the same centrist ‘power elite’, or, more insidiously, in fact peripheral to that elite no matter which political offices they hold. For others, the checks placed on the executive power of political office-holders have become so strong and the relative autonomy of the state’s core institutions so limited that ‘who governs’ is no longer the million dollar question. In a world where power is actively dispersed as well as becoming fragmented, we should instead wonder ‘where and how governance happens’ (Rhodes, 1997). This suggests that there is merit in remaining mindful of the distinction between two related transitions: transiting into the forms of public office and into the substance of real power. Many reformist political parties find that ‘the system’ has ways of filtering out discordant elements: e.g. by relying on systems of checks and balances to allow a reformist party to ‘take office’ but to prevent it from really ‘taking power’. The roots are embedded in liberal constitutionalism, which constrains and limits the power of government. Frustration in transitions frequently arises from the carefully arranged dispersals of power found in many democratic settings. Democracies vary in degrees of popular control over power-holders, with public power itself usually divided into separate branches of government exercising legislative, executive and judicial power. Voters in democratic systems have quite different degrees of popular control over power-holders in each branch of government; indeed, even with particular branches such as the executive branch, voters have significant say over who holds power in the legislature but usually little say over who holds administrative powers within the civil or military service or in the judiciary (Kane et al., 2009). Liberal democratic forms of governance include many checks and balances designed to limit the reach of holders of executive power. The distinction between winning office and winning power suggests the persistence of many such mechanisms, of which entrenched bureaucratic power is simply one. But even in democratic regimes, a minor miracle occurs in that the civilian army of state employees by and large accepts its place as an instrument of public administration regulated under law by elected representatives whose leading hands enlist, and are not enlisted by, the administrative arm of government.

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Building on more than a century of public law, modern democracies honour the values of administrative professionalism and political impartiality that complement the democratic norms of popular control and responsiveness. The result is that ‘the merit system’ defines a wide realm of largely self-regulating autonomy that is surprisingly free of the surface friction of partisan politics. But bureaucracies, of course, have their own endemic forms of partisanship which feature in some of the chapters in this volume. Successions: Characteristics and challenges In contrast, we use the term succession to denote personnel changes in individual leadership positions within government (or political parties). The most dramatic succession of all is that between holders of the head of government position. However, for the departments and sectors concerned, individual ministerial successions can also be highly consequential events, even when they are the product of ad hoc resignations or cabinet reshuffles within one and the same government. Likewise, leadership successions in political parties and government agencies are high-stakes processes that may affect the politics and policies of incumbent governments. Each transition entails a number of successions, but not every succession necessarily comes about as part of a transition. Individual office-holders can die, fall ill, be fired, be promoted, retire, lose an election, or otherwise be induced to change roles. Successions can be planned, as in case of fixed-term CEO contracts or political term limits. They can be predictable and protracted, as in the case of a minister, head of government or party leader whose political capital is in exorable decline as a result of repeated political defeats or policy failures, or highly controversial personal foibles (such as extramarital affairs or lavish use of public funds for not-so-public purposes). Successions can also become necessary in a totally surprising and even shocking fashion, for example when heads of government die in office, such as Australian prime minister Harold Holt, who drowned during recreational swimming in 1966, and Polish president Kaczynski, who perished in a 2010 plane crash along with numerous other senior members of the Polish government establishment. In the case of planned and predictable successions, the anticipation process creates a whole dynamic of growing ‘lame duckness’ for the incumbent, struggles to counter the trend and possibly neutralize competitors, possible attempts by the incumbent or other senior figures to groom a particular successor, and intensive lobbying in the lead-up to formal replacement decisions. When vacancies arise unexpectedly, improvisation is the name of the game, and a sense of shock and time pressure may render the successor selection process that follows both emotionally intense and politically risky. Political successions of whatever kind will inevitably elicit considerable public speculation. At the same time, they often feature intensive behind-

6 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

the-scenes canvassing of and manoeuvring by succession candidates and factions within the party and/or government. They are periods of high political drama, and many of them involve significant doses of interpersonal, intraparty, and – when applicable – intragovernmental conflict. They may also set in motion chain reactions, with one succession triggering a series of people moving roles. Overall, they create periods of instability at the top, which can be traumatic and damaging, but which also present opportunities for reshaping the party’s or the government’s priorities and image. Public service successions are ostensibly more orderly. They are at least formally governed by Weberian-style procedures of merit-based selection, recruitment and performance assessment we have come to associate with a professional bureaucracy. In reality, the careers of top-level bureaucrats are in no small measure influenced by ‘non-professional’ political factors, of which there can be many: general pressures to arrive at a more ‘representative’ bureaucracy (in terms of gender, age, ethnicity); ministerial desires to surround themselves with ‘people they can work with’ (code for: people who have a more acute ‘political antenna’, are more pliable, or are card-carrying party members); a post-transition climate of mistrust of the bureaucracy by the incoming government. The need to build and maintain the thrust of the government and the minister of the day will always be on the minds of those who select and appoint senior bureaucrats. Who the latter are (and who not) in and of itself constitutes an important indicator of the rules of the game governing the nexus between politics (‘democracy’) and the public service (‘bureaucracy’). Both types of ‘power changing hands’ therefore merit investigation in their own right, though they partially overlap. This volume is the first ever attempt to juxtapose both forms of ‘power changing hands’ – transitions and successions – and explore their antecedents and implications in one study. The scope of this book is limited to transitions and succession within democratic executive governments and the political parties that sustain them. We do not claim that its insights apply to transitions and successions in other segments of society. Moreover, the volume does not engage in other pivotal forms of ‘transitology’, namely studying changes in the underlying political regime to and from ‘democracy’ (e.g. Linz and Stepan, 1978, 1996; Offe, 1996). Nor does it look at switches between different types of electoral system (e.g. the 1990s New Zealand change from majoritarian to proportional representation electoral arrangements). Finally, it also does not focus on initiatives to replace one set of constitutional arrangements by another (e.g. from monarchy to republic, as unsuccessfully attempted in Australia; from unitary or federal to confederal political structures, as in Belgium and possibly Canada; or the balance between the prerogatives of national and supranational bodies, as in the European Union).

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Studying transitions and successions: Methodological considerations Some distinctive methodological challenges present themselves to those who, like us, want to study transitions and successions empirically. First, though most of the chapters in this volume explicitly embrace an actorcentred approach to analysing their subject, there is no getting away from the realities of structure-driven forces. Like almost any other set of social scientists, students of transition and succession need to ask themselves which contextual factors shape the considerations and choices of actors in these dramas, as well as, how and to what extent (Goodin and Tilly, 2006). What role, for example, do institutional variables, such as electoral arrangements and party systems play in shaping the course and outcomes of transitions? To what extent do actors feel constrained or encouraged by constitutional or party ‘traditions’? And to what extent do they actively reinterpret and strive to alter the meaning attached to these traditions to suit their present purposes in, for example, ongoing leadership struggles (Rhodes et al., 2009)? The more useful studies of transition and succession are likely to be explicitly comparative, and factor in these questions instead of organizing them out. Second, do we see transitions and successions as discrete events or as unfolding processes? The former perspective facilitates straightforward and numerical description of key parameters of these events, their triggers and their outcomes. It allows for large-N studies. The latter encourages a more in-depth mode of analysis that stays closer to the perceptions and decisions of key actors and picks up on the dramatic twists and turns that are part and parcel of many transition and succession episodes. Its requirements limit the scope for large-N study, and conduce towards the kind of smallerN ‘focused comparison’ recommended by George and Bennett (2005) and other proponents of case-study focused approaches to social science research. This volume features examples of both approaches, each with their own set of strengths and limitations. Thirdly, notwithstanding these differences, all attempts to analyse transitions and successions face the additional challenge of demarcation. When does a transition or succession episode begin and end? In the era of the ‘permanent campaign’, the distinction between campaigning and governing is said to have lost much of its meaning, and it follows that it may be naïve to assume that the anticipation of potential transitions begins only when an election is formally called (Ornstein and Mann, 2000). Likewise, in the case of succession, the eventual resignation and replacement of an office-holder is often the product of a long gestation period, whose origins are not easy to determine unequivocally. The sample applies to the back end of transitions and successions. When do new governments and new office-holders stop being ‘new’ and become ‘settled’ incumbents? What

8 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

time lines for institutionalization of new actors and regimes are sensible – and fair – to maintain in assessing their ‘performance’ and the outcomes of transitory processes? There is no natural Archimedean point here. In assessing transitions, much is made of the ‘100 days’ mark, but this is based on the by now almost mythical example of the initial Roosevelt administration, which took office at a time of acute crisis (Alter, 2007). Likewise, the oft-used one year mark for assessing new governments and new leaders is arbitrary. Governments and their leaders in fact labour under electoral cycles of different amplitudes (e.g. three years in New Zealand and Australia; five years for French presidents; four years in most parliamentary democracies), which no doubt colour the expectations concerning the consolidation of new rulers. Within the public service, the terms of employment of senior executives have widely different time horizons (roughly from three years to life tenure) between and even within jurisdictions, again suggesting different time scales against which their ‘settling in’ is being assessed. These demarcation problems cannot be solved at the stroke of a pen. All we can expect is that students of transitions and successions clarify and justify the temporal frames they use when making these judgement calls. A final methodological challenge is that of dealing with so-called ‘nonevents’. This is particularly acute in the analysis of leadership succession. There are many instances in which an ambitious backbencher or ministers considers challenging the incumbent leader but in the end chooses not to do the deed. How do analysts standing outside the inner circles of the party or cabinet know when these cases have occurred? Much of the informal soundings that go on are meant to remain secret, and in all likelihood quite a few of them do for quite some time. And yet for those in the know, they are meaningful occurrences, whose results become part of the prism with which they assess incumbents and their potential challengers. In that sense, even totally informal and ostensibly unsuccessful consultations about the leadership can serve to destabilize incumbents and further divide cabinets and parties. At the very least, they help raise the hitherto perhaps taboo issue of the ‘sell by’ date of the incumbent. Indeed, one might argue that such aborted challenges act as precursors to the eventual fall of the incumbent, perhaps at the hand of another challenger. Generalizations along these lines are difficult to sustain, however, counterexamples are not hard to come by: think of the ability of Australian prime minister John Howard to consistently stare down his leadership rival within the Liberal Party, treasurer Peter Costello, who never formally challenged despite growing encouragement from his supporters to do so during the final year of the long-term government. (Howard eventually lost his seat and therefore his leadership in the 2007 election, during which Labour gained power).

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In some parties, there are also numerous unsuccessful challenges, where the aspirant does ‘come out’ and the matter is put to a formal vote, but is repudiated by the relevant selectorate. Are these to be simply written off as non-events, or are they in fact consequential – even necessary – steps in the destruction of the political capital of an incumbent? One needs to know much about the political context of the moment and calculations of the actors involved to be able to answer that question sensibly. Many challenges are in fact exercises in ‘testing the waters’. No one expects them to succeed in toppling the incumbent there and then. Their results allow participants and observers to take stock of potential shifts in the balance of forces within the party/government. Generally speaking, one may expect that the slimmer the majority obtained by the incumbent in a challenge, the higher the likelihood of another challenge arising relatively quickly, and the higher the likelihood that the incumbent will eventually be forced out of office (either by a future vote or by informal resignation pressures). But it is hard to test such propositions empirically as the results of party room voting are not always made public. Both types of ‘non-events’ impose limits on the ability of traditional large-N dataset studies to fully capture the dynamics of leadership succession. They only emerge on analysts’ radars when they really drill down into the inner life of the party/government at the time. So whilst not denying the considerable virtues and practical possibilities of large-N studies in this field, ideally, studies of leadership succession combine large-N, eventsfocused approaches with small-N, context-sensitive and process-focused approaches in their overall design.

Understanding transitions: Review and agenda One reason for this volume is that there is surprisingly little systematic research of the dynamics of power transitions associated with the arrivals and departures of new and old governments in contemporary political systems. There are a few important exceptions. One the one hand, there is a large literature in the field of international relations on the theme of power transitions, where this is usually an investigation of the changing ‘balance of power’ relationships among nation states. This literature includes careful attention to the comings and goings of ruling elites in globally important but non-democratic nation states. Thus, the pathology of power transitions in authoritarian states does receive significant research attention. Indeed, so far probably greater attention has been paid to power transitions in non-democratic systems than in democratic systems. One important reason might be the belief among researchers that democratic transitions are comparatively well ‘institutionalized’ compared to what appear to be more ‘personalized’ processes of power transition in non-democratic systems. Hence, researchers examining transitions in

10 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

non-democratic systems have relatively few predicators of who will emerge on top in the next phase of transition or succession. Compare this situation with those researchers examining democratic systems who can confidently predict that the next phases of transition will bring forward the leadership team dominating those political parties likely to win either public confidence or the confidence of the representative assembly with power to determine who rules. Democratic power transitions sound like a simple story of well-scripted process management; but such a view is a gross simplification. The general script may be there, but as noted the mixture of power, personalities, institutions and contexts can and does produce a significant and non-trivial variety of transition dramas. There is also a large literature in the field of democratization studies which investigates power transitions associated with the sequencing of regime changes from ‘pre’ to ‘proto’ to ‘consolidated’ democracies. What is missing is any attempt to stock-take the forms of power transition that occur within existing democratic systems. To be sure, there is an extensive empirical literature chronicling the specifics of individual election struggles (particularly allegedly regime-shifting ‘realignment elections’), cabinet formation processes, as well as dramatic non-electorally induced government transition processes across contemporary democracies (e.g. constitutional crises). But what has been missing is an attempt to interpret these various modes and moments of transition from a broader comparative perspective. This collection is designed to begin to generate useful hypotheses suitable for subsequent comparative investigation across the many concrete instances of the arrivals and departures of governing teams. We have suggested above that a number of dimensions of the transitions process are important ingredients in the explanation of success and failure in power transitions: the front-stage dimension of the changes in the hands holding the reins of executive power; the back-stage dimension of the changes in political development that bring forward a system of democratic governance out of a pre-democratic system; and the off-stage dimension of the challenges posed by non-executive powers (legislative, judicial or indeed executive-bureaucratic or executive-military) to incoming governments. We now suggest that at least three analytical perspectives or social science orientations deserve a place in the mix of analysis of power transitions. First, a constitutional perspective that attempts to make sense of the design principles evident in the various ways that ‘the rules of the game’ of democratic governance shape power transitions. The large picture emerges in the chapter by Higley and Pakulski, which brings to the fore the constitutional norms favoured by different types of governing elites. Adapting traditional typologies of ‘lions’ and foxes’, the authors review the US and Australian experience, common to the larger ‘Anglosphere’, of alternating governing norms associated with these two ruling types: lions tending to reshape the

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 11

rules of the game to favour their clear and open domination of democratic processes, and foxes tending to working around the legal limits and insinuate themselves into the inherited system, without drawing unnecessary public attention to their institutional innovations. The chapter by Uhr, Bach and Massicotte examines three federal cases studies, noting the various ways that bicameralism can modify transitions plans. This chapter contrasts conventional accounts of power transition which focus on the changing hands managing the reins of executive power with an often-neglected focus on who controls of the reins of legislative power. Federal constitutional arrangements provide important test cases allowing researchers to relate two branches of transition: the executive branch story which highlights the centre-stage story of new arrivals and the legislative branch story which highlights the off-stage story of nondeparting challengers to the new governing team. The chapter by Simms explores a related aspect of constitutional forms and due processes: the rules of the game known as ‘caretaker conventions’ designed to regulate the ways that serving governments manage preelection tensions, including the temptations to use the power of incumbency to spoil the chances of challengers. Fascinatingly, these important rules of parliamentary politics are typically devised by incumbent governments advertising their commitment to free and fair transitions in the event that their challengers might win the coming parliamentary election. The New Zealand case studies that Simms uses detail many of the ways that the parliamentary rules of pre-electoral contests impact on the process and substance of power transitions. Second, a theory of transition leadership reflecting on the human factors at work in striking a particular balance between stability and change in both agendas and styles of governing. Opposition leaders who win government through parliamentary elections have choices about how to prepare for the transition game. They may position themselves as saviours of the regime values that incumbents have allegedly ruined, as Walter suggests in his chapter about prime ministerial modes of transition management. They may also present themselves as ‘safe alternatives’ to successful but now jaded incumbents, as Errington notes in his comparative analysis of the role of oppositional experience in shaping the leadership style of incoming prime ministers. For some political systems, certain types of power transitions are not acceptable: consider, for example, the strong social preference among many consociational democracies for change that is authorized by ‘buy-in’ across a broad range of political elites, which can be contrasted with the syndrome of wholesale change in ruling parties favoured by adversarial political regimes found in Westminster-derived systems, with clear lines separating political winners from political losers. Using contrasting Australian and British case materials both Walter and Errington show that it is one thing

12 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

to win office and quite another thing to transit into effective public management of governmental processes and to acquire a truly ‘national’ leadership legitimacy. No golden formula exists, as personal styles and skills modify the extent to which new leaders are willing and able to abide by institutional transition scripts. Subasˇic´ and Reynolds’ chapter offers a theoretical perspective on the question how new leaders consolidate power and authority (following a transition or a succession). Their work is rooted in social psychology, particularly the influential paradigm of social identity theory. They emphasize the importance of ‘identity entrepreneurship’, of new leaders attempting to (re)define the relevant boundaries and norms of the community (the ‘we’) they are proposing to lead. By doing so, they also create a ‘not-we’ (outgroups), and a crucial point for analysis is how these outgroups get defined and treated in the process of consolidating the bond between themselves and the ‘we’ that leaders attempt to forge in order to legitimize and consolidate their leadership claim. Subasˇic´ and Reynolds present a model of leadership consolidation in which this leveraging solidarity and division in relation to ingroups and outgroups prior to and following transitions or successions becomes the crucial mechanism. Finally, there is the executive government perspective. This helps us to understand why some power transitions succeed and others fail by referring to the managerial capacity of ‘the system’ of bureaucratic professionals to give effect to the policy initiatives of incoming governments. Instead it highlights the strengths but also the limitations of state structures for facilitating power transitions. Both should be taken into consideration. The bureaucracy in contemporary governments is not only big and all encompassing, it is also trying hard to strike a balance between democratic responsiveness and professional administrative autonomy. In times of transition, the new rulers are most keen to see evidence of the former, and less keen on the latter. Since none can really do without the other in making executive government work successfully, the challenge becomes one of flexibility, trust-building and renegotiating the ‘public service bargain’ (Hood and Lodge, 2006).

Understanding successions: Review and agenda As noted above, succession research focuses on the coming and going of individual office-holders, whether they be party leaders/prime ministers, cabinet ministers, or senior public servants. It is about the factors that determine the political and professional fates of individuals, not of entire governments. That said, succession research is motivated in large part by the assertion that who holds a particular high public office matters, not just for that individual per se, but for the party that put them there, the organization that is being led by them or the direction of public policy in the

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 13

relevant portfolio. Succession research differs from the long-standing sociological interest in the patterns of elite recruitment in and around the organs of the state (e.g. Mills, 1956; Miliband, 1973; Borchert and Zeiss, 2003; Dogan, 2003). It looks at the structures and processes by which individuals move, or are being moved, into and out of these positions. To what extent can they control their own fates? What is the professional life expectancy of various types of office-holders in different political systems, and how can similarities and differences in that life expectancy be explained and assessed? What patterns of patronage, responsiveness and accountability are established by alternative mechanisms of selecting and removing politicaladministrative leaders? These are some of the key questions of comparative succession analysis. There is a modest amount of prior research in this area. Most of it deals with party leader and prime ministerial succession. Much of the work pertains to descriptive studies of individual countries or parties (e.g. Jackson, 1975; Colome and Lopez Nieto, 1993; De Winter, 1993; Marsh, 1993; Strøm, 1993; Courtney, 1995; Bille, 1997; Bynander and ’t Hart, 2007; Kenig, 2009). There are also plenty of journalistic or historians’ in-depth accounts of particularly gripping succession struggles (Reid, 1969; Alexandre, 1970; Baring, 1982; Kelly, 1984; Koerfer, 1987; Naughtie, 2002; ’t Hart, 2007). However, when it comes to systematic comparative research into leadership succession in liberal democratic parties and governments, the numbers of studies dwindle fast (see, e.g. Calvert, 1987b; Davis, 1998; Hermann, 2005; Bynander and ’t Hart, 2006; Andrews and Jackman, 2008). Studies explicitly concerned with the specific issues of prime ministerial successions (Weller, 1983, 1985: 45–71, 1994; Alderman and Smith, 1990) are especially few and far between. The bulk of the existing succession research pertains to communist and autocratic regimes where drastically different rules of the game apply, or deals with chief executives in presidential systems (McCauley and Carter, 1986; Calvert, 1987a; Swaine, 1992; Wong and Yongnian, 2002; Bueno de Mesquita et al., 2003). Of the parliamentary democracies, the UK case is well written up, almost redundantly so (e.g. Alderman and Smith, 1990; Punnett, 1992; Stark, 1996; Alderman, 1999; Quinn, 2004, 2005; Denham and O’Hara, 2008; Heppell, 2008, 2010; Denham, 2009; and on ministerial turnover Dowding and Kang, 1998; Berlinski et al., 2007, 2010). The more analytical comparative contributions mostly examine successions from the perspective of political parties. In particular they focus on examining the impact of the different rules and mechanisms that various parties have adopted to select and remove their leaders. Many established parties around the democratic world have made changes to those rules in recent times, usually favouring the involvement of ordinary members in leadership choices, providing a series of the kind of natural experiments that social scientists love. There is, consequently a lively debate on the origins and political dynamics of such reforms, as well as preliminary assessments on their pros and cons (LeDuc,

14 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

2001; Pennings and Hazan, 2001; Rahat and Hazan, 2001; Bueno de Mesquita et al., 2003; Quinn, 2004, 2005; Bynander and ’t Hart, 2007; Kenig, 2008). More recently, a resurgence of interest in the career dynamics of cabinet ministers is evident (Dewan and Dowding, 2005; Berlinksi et al., 2007; Dowding and Dumont, 2008; cf. Blondel, 1982). The ups and downs of ministerial tenures are not just described in their own right, they are also studied in relation to the power and leadership style of prime ministers who, to various degrees in different polities, hire and fire prime ministers as part of their own ongoing efforts to increase and retain their political capital. What about succession of public sector CEOs and other senior public servants themselves? There is a copious prescriptive literature on succession ‘planning’ and ‘management,’ much of it formulaic and repetitive and not grounded in empirical research on leadership succession in organizations, of which there is some within in the field of public sector Human Resources Management (Perry and Hondeghem, 2008; Raffel et al., 2009) and a great deal within business studies (overviews in Kesner and Sebora, 1994; Giambatista et al., 2005). In all, there is not yet a body of competing theories, or even few empirically well-established individual propositions entrenched on political and public sector succession either as a cause or as a consequence of other political phenomena (yet see Bunce, 1981). The relatively underdeveloped state of theory development and empirical knowledge about public leadership succession is somewhat surprising given the enormous amount of attention devoted to leadership succession speculation and interpretation in the mass media. Political and CEO successions enjoy a prominent place in public service folklore where the coming and going of ministers, political appointees and chief executives constitutes a recurrent period of uncertainty and change. Each change of masters constitutes a test of public service adaptability. And each is potentially consequential, as the differences of priorities, style, competence and clout between the outgoing and incoming office-holders may bear upon the agency’s place in interdepartmental, and indeed cabinet, pecking orders. The CEO succession literature in business studies is crystal clear: CEO succession matters – perceptually, psychologically and, often at least, materially (Huson et al., 2004; Rowe et al., 2005; Ndofor et al., 2009). Given the absence of a strong pre-existing body of knowledge, what might be some productive lines of inquiry for political science students of succession in democratic governments? We mention three here, which we shall return to in the final chapter, which compares and integrates the findings of all the contributions to this volume. Firstly, from a power perspective, the lens can be turned on the question of who controls whom. It sees the rise, tenure and departure of party leaders in terms of the ongoing pulling and hauling not just between individual members of the party and/or bureaucratic elite but between different offices and constituencies

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 15

within the party organization and executive government. For example, it understands ministerial turnover in terms of the relative power of the prime minister vis-à-vis their cabinet colleagues, backbenchers and party forums. The debates about the rise of prime ministerial government (of the 1970s and 80s) and ‘presidentialization’ of prime ministers (of the mid1990s to the present day) are driven by considerations of power and authority. The degree to which prime ministers possess the ability to ‘hire and fire’ ministers more or less at will is taken to be one important indicator of prime ministerial dominance in these debates. More generally, a power perspective on political succession invites us to analyse successions as processes of strategic actors choices, as well signalling, bargaining and even crisis management, including the role that cognitive, emotional and socialpsychological factors may play in shaping the course and outcomes of these processes (Bynander and ’t Hart, 2006, 2008). Likewise, a power perspective interprets the origins and effects of ministerial and senior agency executive turnovers within cabinet portfolios in terms of the balance of influence in political-administrative relations within the relevant agency. Again the question of the ability to ‘hire and fire’ is a focal point for analysis and debate. For example, questions include the following: What does the move from permanent to fixed-term contracts for agency heads that we have seen in many countries imply for the political control of the bureaucracy, and for bureaucratic responsiveness to the members of the government of the day? What are the implications of dressing up or down the role of independent public service commissioners in the appointment and assessment of senior executives? And who controls the terms of the performance agreements that govern the relationships between ministers and their chief executives? (Hood and Peters, 1994; Hood and Lodge, 2006). Normatively, scholars and practitioners have debated the relative merits of recent or planned changes with regards to each of these pivotal governance mechanisms at the top of public agencies (Savoie, 2003; Mulgan, 2007, 2008; Podger, 2007a, 2007b; Shergold, 2007). Secondly, the flip side of the power coin is that of accountability. An accountability perspective on succession generates a set of related, but analytically distinct set of questions (Mulgan, 2003; Uhr, 2005). Which mechanisms are in place to ensure that holders of high office, who are put there to act as ‘agents’ on behalf of some constituency and/or set of values and interests, are induced to render account of their behaviour to the ‘principals’ who put them there? Who are in effect the relevant principals for, say, party leaders, cabinet ministers or departmental secretaries, and how are the accountability relationships between principals and agents constituted? The many instances of change to party rules of leadership selection and removal that we have seen across the democratic world in the last three decades have in large part been motivated by the idea of opening up these pivotal leadership processes up to broader scrutiny and indeed participation,

16 Power Transitions and Leadership Successions in Government

even down to the level of ordinary party members. A key question generated by the accountability perspective is to what extent these expectations have materialized, and what their implications are for the nature of the principal-agent relationships between citizen-members, party apparatchiks, members of parliament, ministers and indeed heads of government. This leads into a third area of interest, which is that of evaluation. How do we know a ‘good’, ‘well-managed’ succession if we see it? As does any other form of evaluation in the world of government, assessing elite successions involves tricky issues of criteria choice, measurement and causal attribution. There are so many potential vantage points: government stability, elite accountability, legislative control of the executive, democratization of party organizations, party electability, and so on. To our knowledge, political scientists have so far eschewed this challenge: there is no normative theory of succession. There are dilemmas aplenty. How, for example, do we design succession practices that navigate the tension between the need for a certain measure of stability and predictability of government behaviour, with the need for responsiveness to electoral signals, new leaders’ mandates and indeed the need for periodic ‘creative destruction’ and course changes? In the absence of existing frameworks, let us propose a provisional set of criteria for evaluating successions. If only to encourage readers to keep in mind issues of evaluation and possible redesign of succession arrangements when digesting the studies in Part II of this volume. We shall revisit it in the concluding chapter, in light of what we will know by then. In our mind, an effective leader succession process meets the following criteria: – key decisions about leader selection and removal are taken in a transparent, inclusiveness and undisputed fashion; – it produces new office-holders the party, or agency/sector can live with for a while; – it allows the party and/or the government (or individual agencies within it) to consolidate as well as adapt in the face of contextual changes; – it noticeably improves party or agency performance on its performance criteria of choice. The second part of the volume is devoted to comparative studies of successions in and around government. Dowding and McLeay kick off the series by comparing UK and New Zealand prime minister’s institutional possibilities and personal styles when it comes to hiring, moving and firing cabinet ministers. Their examination throws up considerable institutional differences between the two countries, with New Zealand prime ministers in particular needing to constantly watch their backs in relation to their cabinet colleagues, given the ease with which they can be removed by their parliamentary parties and the relentlessness of the electoral pressures generated by a three year cycle. Taking these and the personal idiosyncrasies of

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 17

the post-WWII office-holders in both countries into account, Dowding and McLeay present us with a four-fold typology of prime ministerial styles of managing (and firing) their ministers that forms a useful starting point for further inquiry. The next two chapters both focus on the succession of party leaders (whether in or out of government office). Focusing on the key Westminster democracies, Cross and Blais’ (2009) large-N study examines when and how parties can hold their leaders accountable, or, in more robust parlance, how they can get rid of leaders they no longer want. Studying both formal rules and de facto practices, they note important cross-party and cross-national differences in the way parties handle the politics of leader ‘deselection’ and discuss their implications. Laing and ’t Hart present findings from a new dataset comprising 515 succession cases covering 66 political parties in 23 established democracies in the post-World War II period. They specifically examine the correlates of what they call succession outcomes, defined in terms of leader longevity and party results at the first post-succession general elections. Paul Strangio’s chapter looks at life after succession. Studying the political afterlives of former Australian prime ministers, he examines the extent to which they suffer from ‘office dependency’ (since the loss of high office hardly means the individuals involved necessarily lose the desire to lead), continue to exert influence in their parties (and thus aid or nag their successors), and occupy significant public offices. Paul Atkins’ chapter switches the focus from political to managerial successions. He laments the fact many successions within the senior ranks of the public service are marred by lost opportunities to build trust between new leaders and their staffs and stakeholders. To remedy this he offers a model of ‘collaborative enquiry’ to facilitate trust-building and organizational learning when a new leader comes into the job.

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Part I Understanding Transitions

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2 Ruling Elite Transitions in Australia and the United States John Higley and Jan Pakulski

Introduction In November 2007 Australian voters elected a new political leader, Kevin Rudd. His election was the culmination of a campaign focused almost entirely on the contrasting personalities and images of Rudd and John Howard. By projecting the image of a flexible technocrat-reformer representing a new generation of Australians, Rudd triumphed over Howard’s image as a stubborn defender of the established political-economic order and the generation it served. In November 2008 American voters also elected a new leader, Barack Obama, following a lengthy presidential campaign focused heavily on the personalities and images of Obama and his opponent John McCain. Although affected in its final weeks by a shattering financial crisis, the American contest posed a choice between a highly educated black man and a white military hero, between inspiration and toughness. We have elsewhere discussed Max Weber’s concept of ‘Leader Democracy’ and its salience to Australia, the United States and other western democracies (Pakulski and Higley, 2008). We regard the leader-centred election campaigns and victories of Rudd and Obama as illustrating this salience once again. However, we believe it is also useful to view these and similar political transitions in wider perspective. A device for doing so is Vilfredo Pareto’s theory of what he calls cyclical successions by fundamentally different types of ruling elites.1 He, and before him Machiavelli metaphorically labelled them ‘lions’ and ‘foxes’. Whereas Weber concentrated on charismatic leaders and their plebiscitary relations with mass publics, Pareto focused on the ascendance and recession of ruling elites tout court. An understanding of political transitions benefits from both approaches, but here we interpret recent changes in the composition of ruling elites within Australia and the US through the prism of Pareto’s theory. 23

24 Ruling Elite Transitions in Australia and the United States

Pareto’s theory of elite transitions In his million-word Treatise on General Sociology, published in English as The Mind and Society (1916/1935), Pareto surveyed widely through western history, discussing many different societies, political regimes, and alternating eras of faith and scepticism. He did this in order to illustrate an elaborate and intricate theory of humanity’s several and conflicting psychological propensities (‘residues’), the rationalizations, superstitions, and ideologies that are derived from them (‘derivations’), and how changing combinations of psychological propensities and derived beliefs, together with concrete economic interests, shape the fortunes of ruling elites and societies. While there is loose familiarity with Pareto’s theory, it has seldom been applied to actual events and processes. Compared with the attention showered on the theories of Marx and Weber or Schumpeter’s competitive theory of democracy (‘democratic elitism’), Pareto’s theory has received short shrift (see Finer, 1966, 1968; Femia, 2006; Marshall, 2007; Best and Higley, 2009). Pareto conceived of ruling elites as broad and complex alliances of diverse political groups, economic interests, and social forces, the inner leaderships of which are located in parliaments and governments. In their modern form, ruling elites contain parties and other factions that compete for political and economic power, squabble endlessly over policy matters, and rotate in and out of government. But Pareto viewed such competitions, squabbles, and rotations as matters that do not alter the basic psychology and structure of a ruling elite. Psychologically, its members are disposed to combine the two modes of political rule, force and persuasion (or coercion and cunning), although over time a disposition to rely on just one of the two modes predominates (Femia, 2006: 70). Structurally, elite members constitute an intertwined and polyarchal web of patrons with diverse clienteles. A ruling elite is never homogeneous or conspiratorial; it is a far-flung order or system in which a ‘common accord’ results from ‘an infinitude of minor acts, each determined by … present advantage’ (Pareto, 1916/1935: 2254). In S. E. Finer’s apt formulation, the members of a ruling elite ‘live by taking in each others’ washing’, with the elite’s inner leadership ‘looking after’ as many patrons and clienteles as possible (1968: 447; see also Femia, 2006: 107–8). Thus Pareto regarded opposing parties such as America’s Republicans and Democrats, or Australia’s Liberals and Labor, together with their respective business, trade union and numerous other allies, as of a piece – as constituting a ruling elite (Pareto, 1916/1935: 2257–8). But, he added, there are always other individuals and groups hostile to the existing elite’s mode of rule waiting to take power in some crisis situation. In this respect, Pareto regarded the durations of ruling elites as coterminous with politicaleconomic eras. As his fox and lion metaphors suggest, Pareto postulated that ruling elites differ according to which of two underlying psychological propensities pre-

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dominates over time: (1) a propensity for combining things innovatively that is characteristic of fox-like politicians and their entrepreneurial (‘speculator’) economic allies; (2) a propensity for restoring things to traditional forms that is characteristic of lion-like politicians and their fixed-income (‘rentier’) economic allies. Members of a fox-speculator alliance tend to be calculating, deceptive, and inventive; those making up a lion-rentier alliance tend to be belligerent, courageous, and determined (Femia, 2006: 105). Readers of Pareto have usually regarded these postulates as more or less metaphysical, and his theory of cyclically alternating elites has consequently been seen as not more than an inspired guess lacking empirical support (Finer, 1966: 84). However, research in modern political psychology, ably synthesized by Alasdair Marshall (2007), lends Pareto’s distinctions empirical credibility. It uncovers a cluster of personality traits consisting of hedonistic, irreligious, tolerant, and risk-taking proclivities that resemble the propensity Pareto assigned to fox-speculator elites, and an opposite cluster of risk aversion, paranoia, anti-introspection, and obsessional prejudice approximating the propensity he assigned to lion-rentier elites. The centrepiece of Pareto’s theory is his contention that ruling elite circulation, degeneration, and transition are sequential stages in any politicaleconomic era. A ruling elite is never static; its composition undergoes constant, albeit usually slow and incremental change, with new members rising from non-elite statuses and replacing old elite members gradually. This revitalizes the elite by bringing in fresh blood and talent. Although Pareto did not clearly say so, elections are a key modern mechanism of circulation within a ruling elite. In the American and Australian contexts, Democrats or Republicans, Liberals or Labor win elections and bring new persons and allies into elite positions, though they do so without changing existing policy mixes and sets of belief in any fundamental way. In certain era-ending crises, however, this routine elite circulation gives way to more abrupt and sweeping elite transitions that mark revolutions or gross economic and political calamities (Pareto, 1916/1935: 2054–6). Such transitions are the consequence of inexorable elite degeneration and the increasingly dire situation it creates. Ruling elite degeneration occurs in two interrelated ways according to Pareto. First, the elite’s intellectual and moral qualities decline, making its members and especially its leaders increasingly prone to biases, miscalculations, and policy blunders. Second, its rule becomes too one-sided, rendering leaders and members less and less capable of responding effectively to changing circumstances and challenges (1916/1935: 2178). The former process results principally from elite closure and faulty recruitment. Able persons who do not fit the elite’s social profile and intellectual fixations are increasingly kept out of its ranks, with recruitment more and more dominated by inheritance, cronyism and sycophancy. The other process – increasing one-sidedness and rigidity – involves a growing predominance, especially in the leadership core, of one personality type, whether leonine or vulpine. This fosters a

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biased repertoire of policies and strategies in place of balanced responses to changing circumstances and challenges – it inhibits being forceful and persuasive, principled and opportunistic. More specifically, an elite in which leonine propensities come to predominate fastens ever more strongly on conservative, nationalistic, and religious recipes and shibboleths that bias its policies and actions in a systematic way. It invokes some natural order of things, such as an economy’s ‘invisible hand’ or ‘God’s will,’ to justify inadequately funded domestic policies and international adventures that consume accumulated wealth, deplete military and other resources, and undermine political stability. Growing indebtedness, combined with favouring entrenched over entrepreneurial business interests, weakens the economy and sooner or later creates a crisis. Conversely, an elite that has predominantly vulpine propensities relies increasingly on reason rather than faith, value diversity and innovation rather than stable norms and traditions. It pursues a crafty politics involving endless deals and payoffs that gradually dissipate the elite’s authority and foster social decadence. The elite’s incessant efforts to placate its many clienteles feed economic inflation and eventual insolvency (Femia, 2006: 71–2). Where changing circumstances require blunt, courageous, and forceful actions, a vulpine elite’s systematic bias toward deals and payoffs becomes a fatal liability. Thus both types of ruling elites degenerate, especially in their core leaderships, and this culminates in crises that herald elite transitions. These may take violent forms, as in revolutions or military coups, or they may involve the thorough discrediting of an elite’s ability to cope with crisis. In the latter situation, individuals and groups hostile to the elite’s predominant mode of rule out-manoeuvre it politically. The ruling elite is repudiated in some relatively comprehensive way and many of its members lose power. Pareto died in 1923 and it was principally during the last few years of his life that he focused on ‘democracies’ (1921/1984). He contended that they invariably contain ruling elites: ‘Whether universal suffrage prevails or not, it is always an oligarchy that governs’ (1916/1935: 2183). A democracy is in reality a ‘demagogic plutocracy’ ruled through bribes, deceptions and demagogy by fox-like politicians and entrepreneurial speculators. But because this rule gradually allocates more wealth than it creates, it eventually ‘kills the goose that lays the golden eggs’ (Finer, 1966: 142). When the goose is dead – when the demagogic plutocracy is effectively insolvent – a crisis occurs and in it more lion-like politicians and rentiers living off inheritances and investments gain the upper hand. They rely increasingly on coercion to reverse the economic insolvency and social decadence to which fox-speculator rule led. A ‘military plutocracy’ may be created. But the lionrentier ruling elite also gradually degenerates and the political-economic order again heads toward crisis, not least because of the elite’s unsustainable ‘warlike activities’. In this next crisis, fox-speculators again take over,

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re-institute a demagogic plutocracy, and initiate a new era – a new ‘plutocratic cycle’ (1921/1984: 55–62; see Finer, 1968; Powers, 1984: 1–25; Femia, 2006: 100–23). It is obvious that Pareto painted with a broad brush. He was fully aware that the contours and actions of ruling elites differ greatly between societies and eras and that in its details history never repeats itself. He contended, nonetheless, that uniformities and tendencies, regularities and patterns are discernible among historically specific cases. He knew that the underlying propensities he assigned to ruling elites are theoretical constructs that cannot be validated through direct observation and measurement. But his goal was a general theory that could account better than competing theories – Pareto regarded Marxism as the principal competitor – for sweeping and undulating political-economic changes in history. He believed that these changes could best be explained in terms of the elite propensities and degenerative processes he postulated. Joseph Femia (2006: 75) neatly summarizes Pareto’s project and method: [His] message is clear … In order to discover the ‘structure’ (or ‘edifice’) of the historical process, we must resort to abstraction and accept that different phenomena will be encompassed by a single category, though it is actually a composite of numerous elements – in the same way that a geologist gives the name ‘clay’ to a compound of a number of chemical elements. Let us ask if Pareto’s theory illuminates recent political successions in Australia and the United States.

A leonine elite ascendancy, 1980–2008 A mountain of books and articles recount the comings and goings, successes and failures, of political leaders, governments, and other prominent personalities and elite groups in Australia and the US during the past 30 years. But studies of how the two countries’ ruling elites, in Pareto’s encompassing sense, have waxed and waned are to our knowledge nonexistent (although G. William Domhoff’s repeatedly updated and empirically rich studies of a US ‘ruling class’ are a good approximation; see Domhoff, 2009). Here we interpret features and trends in ways that accord with Pareto’s theory. We observe that the past three decades entailed rule by increasingly aggressive and tough-minded elites resembling Pareto’s leonine type, though this was more transparently so in the US than Australia. A leonine proclivity was discernible from the period’s start, especially in the US, but for a while elites in both countries balanced force and persuasion with considerable effectiveness. However, from the mid-1990s the leonine proclivity became more evident, with elite actions and assessments guided ever more rigidly by faith

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in neo-liberal shibboleths at home and the efficacy of military force abroad. Viewed through Pareto’s prism, degenerations of ruling American and Australian elites accelerated and led eventually to crises and elite transitions. Leonine ascendancy in the United States Profiting politically from post-Vietnam economic and political disarray at the end of the 1970s, an elite faction headed by Ronald Reagan gained executive power in Washington at the start of 1981 and was widely viewed as instituting a basic change in governing style and policy direction – what came to be termed ‘Reaganism’ and ‘Reaganomics’ (Wilentz, 2008). A comparable change in governing style and policy direction at the start of the 1980s was less evident in Australia, even though the country had suffered a declining economic trajectory during the 1970s and a constitutional crisis that punctuated the decline in 1975. The Liberal faction that dominated government from 1975 until 1983 did not depart in a marked way, other than some tougher rhetoric, from what had gone before. Led by Bob Hawke, the Labor faction that gained power in 1983 recognized that the post-World War II economic order was no longer viable and did much to alter it (Kelly, 1992). Still, in both the US and Australia changes in elites from the late 1970s to the early 1980s could be regarded as customary short-term political shifts across the centre-right/centre-left divide that resulted mainly from the charismatic qualities of Reagan and Hawke, their predecessors’ vacillations, and their opponents’ colourlessness. Perhaps, however, these were surface appearances. Clustered around Reagan were belligerent nationalist and neo-conservative elite factions determined to ‘unshackle’ the economy and restore America’s military power in the wake of the Vietnam debacle. During the Reagan administration’s eight years, spending on the military and advanced weapons systems soared; the intelligence apparatus was expanded to gigantic size; the Soviet Union was labelled an ‘Evil Empire’ and a ‘Star Wars’ challenge to it was mounted; tiny Grenada was invaded to unseat a Marxist government; air strikes on Libya were launched in retaliation for a terrorist attack in Germany; arms were supplied to mujaheddin insurgents in Afghanistan and rebel ‘contras’ in Nicaragua; staunch economic and political support of Israel and other allies, many of them autocratic, was rendered. Proclaiming in domestic matters that ‘Government is the problem, not the solution’, the Reagan administration cut taxes on the well-off, confronted trade unions, and supported the Federal Reserve’s deliberate instigation of a deep recession to wring inflation out of the economy. In 1982 the administration secured congressional passage of the Garn-St. Germain Depository Institutions Act, which greatly relaxed regulation of Savings and Loans institutions, enabling them to gamble with taxpayer money because the federal government guaranteed ‘S&L’ deposits. This led to hundreds of ‘S&L’ insolvencies that cost $130 billion in public funds – until then the costliest financial scandal in American history (Patterson, 2005: 175). Important

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for the longer run, the Reagan administration lessened restrictions on mortgage lending, thus enabling home buyers to obtain mortgages without having to make large equity down payments. This planted the seeds of an eventual housing bubble and a precipitous decline in consumer savings. During the succeeding presidency of George Bush senior, which was won in a ruthless campaign against his Democratic opponent Michael Dukakis, leaders of the nationalist and neo-conservative factions held high offices in national security and economic policy domains, the most prominent being Dick Cheney and Paul Wolfowitz as Secretary and Deputy Secretary of Defence, respectively. However, the Bush administration offset part of the huge Reagan budget deficits and economic risk-taking by increasing government tax revenues. Apart from a brief intervention in Panama to remove a dictator and protect US control of the Panama Canal, it eschewed unilateral military actions abroad, as illustrated by the large multinational force it assembled to drive Iraqi forces out of Kuwait early in 1991. Courtesy of a political interloper, H. Ross Perot, who captured 19 per cent of the popular vote in the 1992 presidential election, Bill Clinton and the Democrats edged into the White House. Their hold on Congress was tenuous from the start, and it was lost in 1994 mid-term elections when Republicans, headed by a gaggle of aggressively pious, nationalist, and obsessively neo-liberal southern newcomers, gained what proved to be lasting control of Congress. Refusing to compromise on the government cutbacks they had promised, the congressional Republicans forced a brief and partial federal government shutdown in late 1995. Three years later House Republicans impeached Clinton, though their Senate colleagues lacked the two-thirds majority needed to convict him. In 1999 the Republican-controlled Congress passed the GrammLeach-Biley Act. This repealed that part of the Glass-Steagall Act, passed during the 1930s, which prohibited mergers and direct competitions between banks, insurance, investment, and security-trading firms. The new Act also exempted securities-based swap agreements from Security and Exchange Commission oversight. In these and other actions, the Republican project of unshackling markets looked very much like de-regulation for its own sake. It produced ‘exuberant’ – many would now say wild – financial risk-taking and huge profits for the Republicans’ securities-trading allies on Wall Street. A slide toward crisis accelerated following the victory of an alliance of dogmatically neo-liberal and neo-conservative elite factions, headed by the unworldly George W. Bush, in the 2000 presidential election. Bush’s victory, like his father’s in 1988, was gained through ruthless actions during an electoral standoff in Florida. Once in command of the White House, the Bush coterie systematically filled government posts with loyal and like-minded associates, a practice that culminated after Bush’s re-election in 2004 when trusted friends and close associates were appointed to nine of the 16 cabinet positions and Bush nominated a Texan crony, Harriet Meiers, for the Supreme Court. The 9/11 attacks on New York and Washington DC in 2001 enabled

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the administration to break free of most political constraints, and within a month it regrouped around an inner circle calling itself ‘the Vulcans’ (Mann, 2004). A retaliatory military attack on Taliban-controlled Afghanistan was launched immediately, and not later than July 2002 Bush and his closest associates decided to invade Iraq and remove Saddam Hussein from power, a unilateral undertaking that Bush regarded as approved by a ‘higher father’ than his own (Woodward, 2004: 421). Contrary to traditional Republican beliefs in limited government, balanced budgets, and tight monetary policy, but in line with Bush’s intuitions and the beliefs of neo-liberals and neo-conservatives around him (Kaplan, 2008), military spending was again greatly boosted and the Iraq adventure came on the heels of massive tax reductions for the well-off. Budget deficits much greater than those of the Reagan administration resulted, and they had to be covered by borrowing funds from abroad, eventually at the rate of $1 billion per day. In monetary policy, Alan Greenspan, the Federal Reserve chairman and arch free-marketeer, lowered the basic federal interest rate close to zero and kept it there. Budget deficits and the low interest rate, combined with a strict handsoff posture toward financial markets, especially the market for sub-prime (i.e. high-risk) mortgages, powered a spectacular stock market rise and housing bubble, along with a consumer spending spree that eventually left the average household owing $10,000 in credit card debt. The cocky view of the administration and its business allies about these developments was encapsulated by Vice President Cheney’s flip remark: ‘Reagan proved deficits don’t matter’ (Phillips, 2006: 323). Together with a vicious attack on the military record of Bush’s 2004 presidential opponent, John Kerry, the deficit-stoked economy and consequent good times enabled Bush to win re-election handily. But by autumn 2008, following an ominous bankruptcy and $30 billion government bailout of the Bear Stearns investment firm earlier in the year (Cohan, 2009), the Bush administration was facing economic Armageddon. The federal budget deficit for FY 08-09 was spiralling beyond $1 trillion; two huge government-backed mortgage lending agencies, Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac, had to be de facto nationalized; the major investment firm Lehman Brothers went to the wall with shattering ramifications; the AIG insurance company, which had worldwide financial ties and obligations, had to be bailed out with some $182 billion in taxpayer funds; General Motors required a government infusion of $50 billion to avoid immediate bankruptcy and the direct and indirect loss of perhaps 200,000 jobs; Chrysler was saved only by the government forcing it to amalgamate with Fiat; and staving off the collapse of nearly all major banks required ‘temporary relief funds’ in exchange for government equity holdings. The overall cost was at least $800 billion in government funds, with an additional $1 trillion injected into the economy by the Federal Reserve. Stock market, investment, and other losses totalled $4 trillion. These and other fevered efforts to prevent the onset of economic depression (see Wessel, 2009) occurred at the height of the 2008

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presidential election campaign. The crisis demolished the credibility of John McCain and ensured Barack Obama’s victory, an outcome that probably would not have occurred had it not been for the crisis (Linn et al., 2009). Leonine ascendancy in Australia In Australia a more leonine style of elite rule was presaged by the rise of factions associated initially with two political leaders, John Hewson in the Liberal Party and Paul Keating in the Labor Party. Hewson proclaimed unbounded faith in ‘economic rationalism’, a label for the doctrinaire laissezfaire capitalism that pervaded a considerable part of his party and its supporters in business and intellectual circles as an antidote to the electoral successes of Bob Hawke and Labor in presiding over a mixed economy during the 1980s. However, Hewson fell on his electoral sword in 1993 by promising to introduce a regressive Goods and Services Tax and vowing to reduce the Commonwealth government to a bare minimum of regulatory and welfare functions. Keating, a pugnacious product of the hard-edged Labor Party machine in New South Wales, had done much as Hawke’s Treasurer to deregulate parts of the economy. In that capacity he initiated a decade of tough Labor reforms, reducing the budget deficit (AU$10bn in 1983), introducing enterprise wage bargaining, floating the Australian dollar, lowering taxes and import tariffs, and – against strong opposition within his party – privatizing large state corporations, including Qantas and Commonwealth Bank. In late 1991 Keating engineered Hawke’s overthrow and as prime minister during the next four years he articulated a muscular Australian nationalism that reviled the country’s servitude to Britain and the US, demanded that Australia become a republic, and depicted its destiny as lying squarely in Asia. He also oversaw the mandatory detention of asylum seekers, championed further tax reform, and took a tough stand on the Timor Gap Treaty, thus acquiring the image of a ‘dry’ reformer who paved the way for John Howard (Love, 2008). Keating and the loyalists around him bore a stylistic resemblance to the southern-led Republicans who held sway in the US after 1994. Domination of Australia’s politics by Keating and his faction, though consequential, was brief. In 1996, John Howard, who had regained leadership of the Liberal Party, defeated Keating and began an exceptionally long tenure as prime minister. Protected economically by rapidly expanding markets for Australia’s commodity exports and politically by uninspiring or erratic opposition leaders, Howard and his faction ruled in a markedly aggressive way during four election cycles. They committed military forces to the US-led invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq; intervened militarily in East Timor and the Solomon Islands; instituted invasive anti-terrorist laws and surveillance practices; used a ‘Pacific Solution’ and harsh detention camps to deter asylum seekers; privatized and out-sourced many government functions; altered industrial relations to give employers more leeway; cracked down on welfare support for the indigent and unemployed. Few Australians doubted the

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Howard elite’s tough-minded character and firm beliefs in defence of family, national security, law and order, social unity, individual responsibility, and a lightly regulated capitalist economy (Errington and van Onselen, 2007: 398). The Howard elite was stable, close-knit, and well linked with strategic economic interests. At its core was a handful of experienced and loyal Howard friends and confidants. The Treasurer and Deputy Leader of the Liberal Party, Peter Costello, provided a strong connection with business lobbies and the H. R. Nicholls Society, an influential conservative think-tank. Alexander Downer, scion of one of Australia’s most prominent political-aristocratic families, linked the elite with old pastoral wealth and the social establishment; as minister for foreign affairs, Downer was fiercely pro-US. Philip Ruddock, the Attorney General and veteran MP, was an experienced and tough operator in legal-administrative affairs and key architect of hard-line immigration policies, especially border protection and mandatory detention of illegal migrants (a measure originally put in place by the Keating government). Tony Abbott, an ex-Rhodes scholar, amateur boxer and Howard protégé, had strong connections to the Catholic Church and the somewhat amorphous ‘moral majority’; he was an antagonist of trade unions and a vocal exponent of moral causes such as anti-abortion. Another Howard favourite, Brendan Nelson, was initially given the task of de-regulating the education system, regarded by Howard and his associates as a haven for vulpine decadence. Leonine proclivities became steadily more apparent. The Howard government won re-election in 1998 by positioning itself as the defender of middleclass ‘battlers’ and foe of multicultural and Aboriginal land claim excesses. Re-election in 2001 was secured by exploiting two events: the 9/11 attacks in the US and the national security fears they aroused in Australia; and the Tampa affair, in which the Howard government sent an SAS combat team to board a Norwegian vessel that had rescued several hundred Middle East refugees headed for Australia in order to prevent them from being landed on Australian territory and applying for legal refugee or asylum statuses. During the 2004 election campaign a terrorist bomb wrecked the Australian embassy in Jakarta and assisted the Howard elite in mirroring the Bush elite’s successful 2004 re-election image as a tough defender of national security against unreliable and weak-kneed opponents. Compared with the US pattern, however, it is difficult to discern a clear degeneration of Australia’s ruling elite after the mid-1990s. As noted, strong export markets, together with a dazzling stock market rise, buoyed the Howard elite. By 2007, when sharply higher housing values levelled off and began to decline, there was a spreading sense that the elite had played out its hand. Still, nothing like the litany of failures that beset the Bush elite after 2004 occurred, and Australia’s increased economic turbulence resulted mainly from the deteriorating US economic situation. Although accompanied by exceptional campaign fervour, the Howard elite’s defeat by Kevin Rudd and the resurgent Labor elite at the end of 2007 lay within the para-

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meters of a normal political alternation, in which a majority of voters tire of a long-dominant faction and plump for a more youthful and energetic alternative. If a comparatively indistinct leonine elite cycle ended in Australia it was less because ‘lions’ overreached in fatal ways than because any significant accomplishment achieved by Australia’s unpopular military involvement in Iraq was impossible to demonstrate, while mounting US economic difficulties discredited nostrums about linkages between limited government, unfettered markets, and unending economic prosperity.

New vulpine ascendancies? Pareto held that in ‘demagogic plutocracies’, such as Australia and the United States, politics are in largest measure battles for power between factions within ruling elites (in terms of this volume: succession struggles). Individual leaders are crucial to the outcomes, and in key respects Australia and the US have become leader democracies. Yet this may not be the whole story. It is obvious that governing and opposing factions and their powerful allies in business, trade unions, media, and assorted other organized interests constitute elite armadas, each of which possesses huge financial and other resources for waging political battles. Consider that the Obama elite enlisted 300 officially designated foreign policy advisors, expended three quarters of a billion dollars to pay full-time organizers in most of America’s 3000 electoral districts and saturate commercial television and the Internet with appeals for support, and appointed some 7000 persons to federal government positions. As the Obama efforts indicated, voters decide which leaders and affiliated elites will hold government power, but voters’ decisions are tightly circumscribed and manipulated. Pareto stressed that by taking advantage of changing circumstances one set of leaders and elites prevails by presenting itself as tougher, shrewder and more innovative than its opponents. But he also held that beneath the glitz of such electoral posturing competing leaders and elites are propelled – predominantly but never wholly – by the same deep-seated psychological propensity and broad set of derived beliefs. Another way of putting this is to say that during an historical era political contests consist much more of echoes than basic alternatives. In a time when the study of politics focuses on the behaviour of citizens and voters and tends to regard elites as blemishes on democracy, it is important to revive Pareto’s vision. But it is also important not to beg questions stemming from his vision. Does Pareto’s portrayal of ruling elites as lions and foxes and of politics as continual cycles in their rise and fall make better sense of political change than still more studies of voters, civil society, political trust, political culture and the like? In this chapter’s context, can we, through Pareto’s prism, discern the start of another plutocratic cycle in which vulpine elites are again becoming ascendant?

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In the United States veterans of the Clinton elite, whose hands were tied by Republican control of Congress (and the Supreme Court) after 1994, fill a considerable part of the Obama administration’s top echelons. Moreover, the 2008 elections brought substantial change in the makeup of Congress, and the economic crisis that opened the door to this change shredded neoliberal orthodoxies. The Republican elite’s base of support has shrunk to southern and western states, most of them lightly populated. In keeping with Pareto, the elite clustered around Obama displays some vulpine earmarks. The craftiness with which Obama and his team bested nine other candidates, including Hillary Clinton, for the Democratic nomination was one. Another was Obama’s posture as a calm and measured alternative to the more hot headed McCain and the arrogant president, Bush. Where, for example, McCain stressed the necessity for open-ended US occupation of Iraq, Obama promised early withdrawal. During its first half year in power the Obama elite displayed other vulpine earmarks. One was the dexterity with which it avoided making a direct and politically divisive assault on the preceding Bush administration, with Obama and his lieutenants stating repeatedly that they saw no point in looking back, they only wanted to look forward. Having promised to ‘end the war in Iraq,’ Obama and his national security advisors took pains to assess the perils of US withdrawal and insist that military commanders’ judgements would be decisive. Acceding to those judgements, the administration postponed major US withdrawal for at least a year. Meanwhile, it stepped up the military campaign in Afghanistan and missile strikes by unpiloted drones in northwest Pakistan, albeit in closer partnership with NATO and other forces and with greater emphasis on regional solutions. Nationalism was toned down, and the Bush elite’s invocations of America’s mission in a ‘global war on terror’ were assiduously avoided. More broadly, diplomacy was back in favour with a focus on consensus building, negotiation, and working with ‘stake-holders’. The Obama administration grappled with the economic crisis by eschewing radical and politically explosive measures such as bank nationalization and the full business bankruptcies that neo-liberalism prescribes as the natural solution for insolvency. In short, the new governing elite acted in a prevailingly cautious and deliberate manner. To the extent that this presaged a continuing pattern, an elite transition from aggressive and intransigent rule to a more calculating and cunning mode occurred and perhaps signalled the start of a new era. Despite our doubt that similarities between US and Australian elite trajectories and transitions have been close, it is not hard to discern some family resemblances between the Obama and Rudd elites. The Rudd elite’s election campaign during 2007 had a crafty texture, playing up Howard’s belligerence and hubris while offering a more comfortable yet competent and shrewd governing style. After winning office, Rudd and his associates

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made eagerly awaited but largely cost-free gestures intended to signify a basic change: an immediate ‘apology’ to indigenous Australians for past wrongs; signing the Kyoto Protocol to highlight awareness of climate change; Rudd’s visit to Beijing and his speech there in Mandarin. More costly policy changes were, meanwhile, put on hold pending the completion of myriad reviews, though close to the end of its first election cycle, the Rudd government, like the Obama administration before it, took on the major challenge of health care reform. The question is whether the new US elite will survive long-lasting economic recession. Measures taken to abate it will inevitably be deemed insufficient and widen elite divisions. Although neither set of governors appeared in mid2009 to face a credible opposing elite with an attractive leader, the high and still rising level of US unemployment was sucking wind rapidly from the Obama sails, stepped-up combat in Afghanistan was becoming more costly in soldiers’ lives, and a political struggle over reform of the gigantic but deeply dysfunctional US health care system raged. The Rudd government did not face the military and political rigours of future withdrawal from Iraq and it was much less mired in the Afghan-Pakistan swamp; Chinese and other demand for Australian exports was reviving; and it appeared that an ambitious but politically difficult plan to cap and trade carbon emissions might be put, apart from window dressing, on the shelf to await international developments. In the meantime a tougher test of its vulpine credentials was posed by the resurgence within Australian politics of an issue that helped the Howard elite consolidate and strengthen its leonine rule: border control. Though the absolute numbers were still small when compared internationally, a rapid growth in the number of refugees trying to reach the Australian continent illegally through people smugglers put the Rudd regime in a difficult spot. It had humanized the previously draconian border control regime, and now found itself faced with an increasingly nervous domestic public opinion and a strengthening Liberal Party opposition seeking to paint the government as weak and naïve in matters of national sovereignty and security. All in all, at the time of writing more vulpine elites in both countries, though not as yet decisively marked, were being staunchly opposed by adherents to the preceding leonite ancien regimes. Still struggling to consolidate their rule, they nevertheless looked like gradually getting into a position to be colouring political agendas and public policy during the next few years and perhaps beyond.

Note 1 Given that when using the term ‘elite successions’ Pareto actually refers to collective turnover at the top government/society and not rotation of individual officeholders, we will use the term ‘transitions’ instead, in keeping with the conceptual distinctions made in the introductory chapter in this volume.

36 Ruling Elite Transitions in Australia and the United States

Bibliography Best, H. and Higley, J. (eds) (2009) ‘Democratic elitism reappraised’. Special issue of Comparative Sociology, 8(3), 323–44. Cohan, W. D. (2009) House of Cards: A Tale of Hubris and Wretched Excess on Wall Street (New York: Doubleday). Domhoff, G. W. (2009) Who Rules America? Challenges to Corporate and Class Dominance, 6th edn (New York: McGraw Hill). Errington, W. and van Onselen, P. (2007) John Winston Howard: The Biography (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press). Femia, J. V. (2006) Pareto and Political Theory (London: Routledge). Finer, S. E. (1966) Vilfredo Pareto: Sociological Writings (New York: Praeger). Finer, S. E. (1968) ‘Pareto and pluto-democracy: The retreat to the Galapagos’, American Political Science Review, 62(2), 440–50. Kaplan, F. (2008) Daydream Believers: How a Few Grand Ideas Wrecked American Power (New York: Wiley). Kelly, P. (1992) The End of Certainty: The Story of the 1980’s (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Linn, S., Moody, J. and Asper, S. (2009) ‘Explaining the horse race of 2008’, PS: Political Science & Politics, 42(3), 459–66. Love, D. (2008) Unfinished Business: Paul Keating’s Interrupted Revolution (Melbourne: Scribe). Mann, J. (2004) Rise of the Vulcans: The History of Bush’s War Cabinet (New York: Viking). Marshall, A. J. (2007) Vilfredo Pareto’s Sociology: A Framework for Political Psychology (Aldershot: Ashgate). Pakulski, J. and Higley, J. (2008) ‘Towards leader democracy?’, in P. ’t Hart and J. Uhr (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practices (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 45–56. Pareto, V. (1916/1935) The Mind and Society, 4 vols (New York: Dover Publications). Pareto, V. (1921/1984) The Transformation of Democracy, edited by C. H. Powers (New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers). Patterson, J. T. (2005) Restless Giant: The United States from Watergate to Bush v. Gore (New York: Oxford University Press). Phillips, K. (2006) American Theocracy: The Peril and Politics of Radical Religion, Oil, and Borrowed Money in the 21st Century (New York: Viking). Powers, C. H. (1984) ‘Introduction’, in V. Pareto, The Transformation of Democracy, edited by C. H. Powers (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers), pp. 1–23. Wessel, D. (2009) In Fed We Trust: Ben Bernanke’s War on the Great Panic (New York: Harper). Wilentz, S. (2008) The Age of Reagan: A History 1974–2008 (New York: Harper). Woodward, R. (2004) Plan of Attack (New York: Simon & Schuster).

3 Managers or Messiahs? Prime Ministerial Leadership and the Transition to Government James Walter

Styles of prime ministerial transition management The dichotomy between presidential and Westminster systems produces distinctive interpretations of governmental transitions in Anglophone democracies. When all significant executive positions fall to the winning party, as in the US, there must be more attention to the details of transition than is required for a change of government in a parliamentary system, where the permanent civil service assures some continuity. Thus, the literature on presidential transitions is more extensive, and more systematic, than that on prime ministerial change (Burke, 2000; Kumar and Sullivan, 2003). Yet, over nearly 40 years, as a modernization of the Westminster executive has been imposed by the necessities of rapid start-ups and decisive leadership in a globalizing world, aspirant prime ministers have increasingly focused on transition planning, in contrast to the ad hocery of the past. So there have emerged some useful narratives on the preparation and transition to power of prime ministers, usually in the form of biography and memoir, and especially relating to those deemed to have driven change: see for instance, studies of Thatcher and Blair on the path to power (Young, 1990, ch. 8; Hennessy, 1997; Hennessy, 2001: 476–86). Yet such studies are rarely cumulative or systematic – we have to read across them to detect a learning curve, to map patterns or to attempt comparison with other cases of governmental transition. This chapter surveys recent Australian prime ministers bridging the gap between opposition and government as an instance of systematic comparison. While focused specifically on the Australian case, it should provoke reflection on parallels elsewhere and thus broader consideration of prime ministerial transitions. It concentrates on the period from 1972 to 2007, since this has increasingly come to be seen as the era of contemporary Australian modernization (Kelly, 2009). It deals only with the transitions to power from opposition; hence, Paul Keating (Prime minister from late 37

38 Managers or Messiahs?

1991–96), who assumed power while his party was in government, is excluded. It indicates not only that there is a linear development, as each incoming administration adapts from what has gone before, but also that there are patterns distinctive to the dominant parties. Finally, it suggests that while cumulative patterns can be discerned, the intersections of a leader’s personal style, historical context and party fortunes reveal the influence of personal predilections on these patterns. A spectrum of possible approaches, from zealous pursuit of a programme (salvation) at one end (Gough Whitlam, 1972–75), through appeals to values rather than policy (John Howard, 1996–2007), towards consensus building and change management (Bob Hawke, 1983–91) at the other end, is outlined. Whitlam’s reference to the importance of ‘the word’ in explaining his transition to government – he cites his party’s platform as the ‘Old Testament’ and his 1972 policy speech itself as the ‘New Testament’ (Whitlam, 1985: 23) – prompts ‘messiah’ as designating one end of the spectrum. Hawke’s success in separating his own ‘love affair with the Australian people’ from his managerial approach to a high achieving reform government suggests ‘manager’ as the other. This chapter concludes that ‘managers’ emerge as the most effective and productive transition leaders, even in situations that demand significant reform.

Preparation and transition: Labor’s experiences The period of contemporary modernization was kicked off by the controversial Labor prime minister, Gough Whitlam in 1972. His approach to preparing for government was revolutionary, entailing party reform, policy innovation and institutional revitalization. His term, exhilarating at its best, and devastating in its failures, was to provide both resources for, and warnings to, subsequent administrations, particularly (but not only) Labor governments. Whitlam, a brilliant opposition leader between 1967 and 1972, drove party reform and the generation of policy in an extraordinary manner. He had been developing his ‘programme’ consistently since the 1950s, and had a clear agenda when he gained the leadership. He was the progenitor of a policy explosion that made the Labor Party a credible alternative government after 23 years in opposition. He was, in his view, an initiator: ‘I don’t think programmes can be devised by the total body. There are some people who can give initiatives. The party platform is studded with things I was the first to suggest’ (Walter, 1980: 31). Though he provided the initiatives, he astutely garnered advice from others towards his ends. He gathered a loyal and pro-active staff, and together they looked to extra-political experts for the stuff of their programme. Whitlam relied on these staff to do the groundwork and develop the contacts needed to facilitate his ideas – not only for policy, but for reform of the machinery of government. A staffer, Richard Hall, for instance, brought Dr Peter Wilenski, a

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public servant and academic, into the loop, and it was Wilenski who prepared draft administrative arrangements for the ministry, the organization of prime ministerial staff, a reorganization of the public service and a Cabinet committee system based on the Canadian model. Wilenski’s work was analogous to that of Richard Neustadt with his advice to John Kennedy on organizing the transition – and Wilenski became Whitlam’s first principal private secretary in office (Walter, 1986: 69–75). Whitlam was explicit about his modus operandi: I think [my best quality] is probably that I will try to work out means of achieving what I think are my Party’s objectives – how to marshal the examples in other countries, how to marshal the advisers in this country – and then try to work out how to explain it to people. I think that’s probably what I’ve done best … It’s what I tried to do. Some of those who worked with him, however, became aware of a telling gap: ‘Whitlam lacks a sense of systems – things being linked together in ways that make it impossible to change one part without changing the lot. I don’t think he has that sense even about society’. Or, as another suggested, ‘The programme was essentially an accretion of detail, policies and bits and pieces. One of the things wrong with the Whitlam government was that while he was flying around on all these fronts, there was never a coherent strategy behind it all’ (Walter, 1980: 33). Nevertheless, the sheer proliferation of policy made Whitlam a winner. First, it guaranteed him a smooth passage within the Party, since no one else had the knowledge to contest his arguments. Second, against the run-down, uninspired Coalition government Whitlam’s initiatives made Labor look as if it had the answers. Third, there was no one on the government side who could match him effectively in parliament. Coming to power with a comprehensive programme of answers to the chief policy challenges of the day, Whitlam engineered a transition such as had never been seen before, or since. He established a two man ministry with his deputy, Lance Barnard, sweeping into action before his full ministry could be sworn in. Whitlam adduced arguments for this unparalleled interim arrangement and set to work with a will – even the staid Sydney Morning Herald took to running a panel on its front page listing ‘What the Government did today’. It was a heady start, but feathers were ruffled, not only those of the defeated Coalition administration, startled by the speed of the transition, but also of senior Labor MPs, who felt the interim ministry should have included more, and of backbench colleagues who were simply doubtful. ‘Some of us in Caucus immediately started looking for ways to protect ourselves from what Gough and Lance might do’ (Walter, 1980: 39). Consistent with this, Whitlam proved too insistently active to be a good leader of Caucus. He was incapable of the patience and impartiality needed

40 Managers or Messiahs?

to run meetings, wanting to be central to debate. In 1972, Caucus changed its rules, allowing Whitlam to be the first leader in the party’s history not to chair Caucus. He was too concerned with getting on with ‘the programme’ to allow others to debate its details. Whitlam often eschewed negotiation and compromise, involving consultation, by forcing issues in Caucus in the guise of a vote on overriding considerations (his leadership, his ministry) rather than simply as votes on matters of dispute. In the electorate, this approach led as early as 1973 to accusations of ‘government by crisis’. Caucus itself remained ambivalent: on one hand, many were impressed by Whitlam’s superb parliamentary performance, on the other they resented his steamroller tactics and soon tired of having party votes represented as matters of confidence rather than of policy. Consequently Caucus would occasionally arrest Whitlam’s progress, less from disagreement than as a means of asserting its rights. A reform PM needs the support of his allies: such checks did not facilitate the transition. There were early failures of coordination and consultation, for example, Attorney General Lionel Murphy’s spectacularly ill-judged decision to utilize Commonwealth Police in a search of the Australian Security Intelligence Organization (ASIO) for evidence of Croatian terrorist activity, which ASIO had allegedly failed to provide on request. This debacle set the fashion, but other ministers failed to learn its lesson, asserting their prerogative to act independently. Whitlam, with neither the attributes of nor the wish to be a team captain, was unable to keep them in line. These were only the first manifestations of what was to become generally apparent in Cabinet: that Whitlam was a bad manager. Following the Wilenski plan, Cabinet work was systematized, with some devolution of powers to committees, but this accentuated Whitlam’s centrality: With the profusion of decision-making units in the Cabinet system, the full Cabinet receded in prominence and Mr Whitlam augmented his authority. With several lines of activity going simultaneously, Mr Whitlam was the only agent able to keep a hand on all the levers. The Cabinet functioned in his image as an instrument for making quick and attractive decisions (Lloyd and Reid, 1974: 141). While Whitlam could easily hold sway, Cabinet proceedings were often fragmented and the volume of work tackled sometimes led to deterioration in quality. From the first, Whitlam pushed things through Cabinet too fast. ‘Whitlam wanted to have the biggest legislative programme, the most bills, the most reforms …,’ said one minister; ‘there was no let up from the pressure for action’ commented another. One year in, another minister remarked: ‘We have taken the attitude that commitments in the policy speech delivered by

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Mr Whitlam have to be accomplished in 12 months. I see it as a plan rather than a timetable. The Government may be going a little too far too quickly’. The first year set the pattern: by 1975, the Parliamentary Counsel was to complain that his office was faced with too much legislation to draft: ‘We do our best to maintain a standard, but there is far too much …’ (Walter, 1980: 53). Whitlam’s turbulent transition was all too indicative of what was to come. The frantic pace had been set by the historic two-man ministry in those first weeks when it seemed easier to change the world with a flow of long-pondered decisions, but as the problems of government became more complex, Whitlam’s relentless emphasis on adding to ‘the list’ of achievements, became a problem for his colleagues. Most, lacking Whitlam’s abilities and his immense appetite for work, were forced back onto their own areas, because that was all they could keep up with. Few had time for the long view. His administration broke records for decisions made and legislation introduced, but the pressure of business allowed items through that in better circumstances might have been more closely scrutinized. One minister, asked if he felt Cabinet ministers could maintain a fair sense of what was going on, replied: ‘Oh, I suppose we did, but they were coming too fast – it was like going in a flying machine’ (Walter, 1980: 54). The Whitlam government effected significant reforms, but too little of his programme was consolidated – in part because changing economic circumstances undermined the reform project, but in part because one of the most brilliant opposition leaders proved incapable of managing a transition to power that would lead to sustainable government. Convinced of his course, confident of his destiny, Whitlam would fatally misjudge circumstances – the story of how he was outmanoeuvred and of his government’s unparalleled fall needs no recapitulation here (see Kelly, 1983), but its seeds can be seen in the transition itself. Whitlam, convinced, as were many of his followers, that his loss of government in 1975 was a result of political betrayal (Whitlam, 1979) and that the people would see the light, did not resign until another federal election loss in 1977 showed the futility of that course. He was then succeeded by Bill Hayden. Following Whitlam’s resignation Labor worked hard to develop a new policy agenda, founded on economic responsibility (foreshadowed by Hayden’s 1975 budget as Whitlam’s last treasurer). A cohort of new, talented backbenchers, many elected in 1977, devised a fresh approach to social democracy under Hayden’s leadership, gaining momentum after the 1980 elections, which saw a swing to Labor, though not enough to unseat the conservative Coalition. Intent on avoiding the poor organization and ineffective decision-making of the Whitlam years, they prepared carefully for government not only through comprehensive policy development but also with successive working parties and task-force reports on cabinet, committee systems and public service reform which issued in a campaign document, Labor and quality of government (cited in Wilenski, 1986: 269).

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Peter Wilenski, again, was an advisor in this process. Although Whitlam too had planned for administrative reform, this was the first time a party developed transparent suggestions about the machinery of government as part of its appeal to the electorate. There was, hence, a well-developed transition plan (Weller, 1983), and Hayden could justifiably claim that, ‘the policies on which Labor fought the 1983 election had been elaborated and refined … during the previous four and a half years of my leadership’ (Hayden, 1996: 375). Yet Hayden would not lead the 1983 campaign. Doubts assailed his colleagues about Hayden’s ability to best Liberal prime minister Malcolm Fraser, doubts in part fuelled by the challenger in the wings, Bob Hawke. Hawke, a union leader and a significant player in Labor politics, was one of the best-known and most popular figures in Australian public life at the time. There had long been talk of drafting Hawke into parliament, and when he won preselection for Wills in 1979, and parliamentary election in 1980, his supposedly imminent ascension to the leadership was regarded as the fulfilment of manifest destiny (not least, by Hawke). That ascension was not smooth: Hawke struggled to adapt to his new milieu of parliament, while Hayden insisted that Labor’s policy development, alongside the increasingly apparent differences in the Liberal Party, would ensure victory (Kelly, 1984). The internal party battle was finally resolved in February 1983 when Hayden decided to call for a vote on the leadership, which Hawke won – catching out Fraser who had called an early election on that same day to try to capitalize on the ALP’s leadership turmoil. Fraser, wrong-footed at the outset, never regained the initiative and lost the election. Hawke served as Labor prime minister from 1983 to 1991. The decisive factor in Hawke’s favour, in the 1983 campaign and long after, was his colleagues’ acceptance that his unique public popularity would guarantee the party’s electoral success. In the 1983 election Hawke ran ‘not as leader of the opposition but as prime minister-in-waiting’ (Freudenberg, 2003: 89). The transition plan provided well for the mechanics of government, though there would be successive adjustments as it was implemented, but the social democratic policy agenda would become subsidiary. Believing ‘if the world doesn’t trust you then it can ruin you’, Hawke established, ‘responsible’ economic reform as his overriding objective. He allowed others in his ministry scope to defend social goals while he and his treasurer, Paul Keating, busied themselves with the economy. They repositioned Labor as the party of market oriented, realist government, pursuing private sector deregulation, public sector reform, and economic growth. An Accord with the unions, containing wage claims in return for reinforcement of the social wage, underwrote Hawke’s economic achievements. The Accord, a substantial element within the transition policy portfolio, was developed by Ralph Willis (shadow treasurer in opposition) in cooperation with union leader Bill Kelty, rather than either Hawke or Keating (the new treasurer).

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Hawke’s success depended on his ability to sustain electoral popularity, and the way he managed government. An early study suggested that Hawke adopted, from the start, a hands-off, almost laissez faire approach to his ministerial colleagues, that he was not an ideas man, and had no agenda and little vision (Hede and Wear, 1995). This was to be a recurrent criticism (Anson, 1991), yet it ignored the strengths that made his one of the most successful transitions to government, and later one of the most successful administrations, in the post-war period. Transition planning clarified the respective roles of cabinet and caucus, and allowed for an acceptable split between the inner cabinet and the ministry at large, an effective committee system, and the institutionalization of factional input in a way that facilitated consensus. Hawke can take little credit for this, but could capitalize on it with flair. His greatest strength, however, was that he gave a talented team the latitude to get on with their jobs. He was an adept negotiator and an excellent chair. His skill was to focus the cabinet on essentials and to keep it there … Hawke was concerned as much, and at times more, with the process of decision-making as he was with particular outcomes … concerned to conciliate, to identify the points of difference and then to reach an agreement … He acted as chairman, publicist, trouble-shooter and, at times, guardian of the central strategy of government … He was personally involved in detail in only a few areas of policy (Weller, 2007: 171, 172, 175). The achievement of compromises, where each interest gained some (but not all) of its demands, was Hawke’s speciality. If the Accord was the high point, a sequence of Hawke initiated national summits early in the transition aimed at the same result. These were also, partly, an educative process – peak bodies came together to talk, the media reported their exchanges as part of the story of necessary change. These tactics were effective in achieving gains in health, social policy, community services, immigration and multiculturalism, education – even while the main game remained the economy. Winning the party over to his economic agenda hinged less on clever politics than on Hawke’s belief, which many shared, that the ALP could not continue in government without him: this gave him leverage in insisting on the politics of pragmatism (Hawke, 1994). He may have concentrated on decision processes at the expense of ideas, but driving with a light rein and being able to negotiate consensus facilitated a team approach to Cabinet. It allowed hard men at the core of government to run with economic reform, while philosophically committed reformers were given some latitude to introduce ameliorative measures. And for a long time, unparalleled in federal ALP history, it contributed to the survival of the Labor government.

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When Labor under Keating eventually lost power in 1996, it remained in opposition for 11 years, and endured four leadership changes – by which time the need for a fresh approach to transition planning was apparent. The ALP won government again in 2007 with a map for the transition, drawing on a detailed agenda that had been developed in 2004 (ALP, 2004), and refined subsequently by its new leader, Kevin Rudd, and a number of key policy wonks in the shadow cabinet. Rudd, elected leader only a year before the 2007 campaign, was ‘desperate to come up with a new agenda and to put it out in the media … [he] was to use much of the work that had been completed by [his predecessor] Kim Beazley’ (Stuart, 2007: 247). Nonetheless, Rudd’s pitch to the Party’s national conference in 2007 stressed ‘fresh thinking’, he undertook a ‘listening tour’ to seek input, and he recalibrated policy in relation to three big challenges, whose successful address was represented as central to future economic prosperity: the rise of China, the education revolution and climate change (Macklin, 2008: 180, 194, 205). After a period when the party seemed ‘beyond belief’ (Button, 2002), the attention both to machinery of government and policy marked a return to the planning that preceded the 1983 ALP victory. And it at last drew electoral support back to Labor. Anne Tiernan, reviewing Rudd’s first six months in government drew attention to six elements (Tiernan, 2008). First, there was a plan, it drew on the lessons of the past (including the 1983 transition) and there were implementation agents (such as Faulkner) both interested and experienced in the machinery of government. Second, Rudd’s prior experience as a senior, Labor-appointed, (state) public servant, who had had to deal with a bureaucracy long used to responding to a different party, ensured that he moved swiftly to make contacts, to ensure briefings and to reassert a commitment to public service independence and neutrality. Third, Rudd asserted his authority over the appointment of the ministry, overturning the convention that Caucus would elect the ministry (though, since Whitlam, the PM decided portfolios), and moved quickly to put his team in place. Ministerial staffing entitlements were established, with an open merit process in their appointment and a code of conduct promising accountability not apparent under former governments. Cabinet was restructured, with Faulkner appointed cabinet secretary (in effect, a roving trouble-shooter), a restructuring of committees (to assure a focus on budget, expenditure review and climate change), and the introduction of community cabinets (to ensure links with communities). Fourth, drawing on practices initiated by Whitlam, but further elaborated by every successor, Rudd retained a powerful Prime Minister’s Office (PMO) and a strong and active Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet (PM&C) (though with plans radically to reorganize the latter) – a system of advice reflecting his authority as prime minister. Fifth, illustrating the government’s commitment to contestable policy advice from diverse sources, Rudd looked to ‘shake out’ good ideas, drawing on outside

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advisors, task forces and inquiries, and promoting a summit, Australia 2020. Sixth, as Tiernan concluded: By establishing … ‘discipline and effectiveness’, the new government was able to ‘hit the ground running’. It exploited the opportunities of the transition period to achieve some important and symbolic policy goals, and harnessed popularity and good will to frame a new and distinctive narrative of governance (Tiernan, 2008: 70). On the other hand, the centralization of authority in the prime minister became a matter of concern during the transition. Rudd’s drive and his extraordinary work habits set the tempo for his team, and were to drive the Australian Public Service (APS) close to breaking point by May 2008. Tiernan’s positive account of the successful Rudd government transition acknowledged that his inability to step back might prove a problem. She also noted that as PM&C was reconfigured to meet the needs of the new prime minister, there ensued significant instability and turnover within the department (Tiernan, 2008: 71), an instability that seemed to affect the public service at large by mid-2008. Rudd was seen in some respect as the author of all his government did in its first six months: as one journalist remarked, ‘his fingerprints are on everything’. Despite the ALP’s intention of addressing the problem of consolidated executive power, some questioned Rudd’s ability to do so: a former Foreign affairs colleague of Rudd, for instance, predicted he would be a ‘nightmare, an obsessive who would micromanage everything’ (Age, 6 November 2007: 6), and seasoned observers canvassed the indications that he would ‘seize more power as PM’ (Kelly, 2007). In time, the commentary on Rudd’s predilection for micro-management, and a controlling centralization, became more detailed and more persuasive (Grattan, 2008; Murphy, 2008), especially six months or so in, when the honeymoon came to an end, cracks appeared in the leadership façade, and Rudd defended himself by savaging the APS. Criticism was forestalled, however, as the escalating global financial crisis in September–October 2008 gave Rudd an opportunity to demonstrate decision and action. Rudd did not wait to follow the lead of comparable countries. He was ahead of the field in lobbying Gordon Brown and George W. Bush to move discussion from the (US and western Europe focused) G7 group of countries to a G20 summit (including the Asia Pacific and Australia). He was ready with a plan to take to the G20 to improve financial regulation, transparency, adequate capitalization, better monitoring (by the IMF) and incentives to promote stability rather than short-term risk. Though Australia was not beset with the failure of banks, in common with other western polities it moved quickly to guarantee bank deposits, and to engineer a substantial fiscal stimulus.

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If caution was overtaken by speed and action, Rudd effectively reassured his audience with repeated invocations of his government as ‘calm, methodical and rational in the way in which it approaches decisions’. It was a message that voters accepted: there was a substantial surge in support for the government and its handling of the crisis. Rudd’s image was transformed from process driven technocrat to strong leader, facing unpredictable times calmly and decisively with an effective team. He could dominate the crisis ‘story’ with his depiction of the market failure of ‘extreme capitalism’ justifying activist government, and condemning the outmoded ideology of his predecessors. In the longer term, this question was decisively answered. Rudd’s penchant for control, reliance on a closed circle of senior colleagues and PMO advisors, and imperious disregard of caucus both in reaching contentious decisions and abandoning commitments provoked such disquiet that, when the polls turned sour, the party turned on him. In June 2010 he was challenged for the leadership by his deputy, Julia Gillard, and lost, relinquishing the prime ministership within the ALP government’s first term. Some however continued to insist that there was deep unhappiness and dysfunction behind the façade. Rudd’s relentless demands were said to fuel high staff attrition rates and ongoing bureaucratic unhappiness (Milne, 2008). The question became whether a successful transition in the first 12 months of government, reinforced by a positive public image, could become undermined in the longer term by a dysfunctional controlling and demanding personal style.

Preparation and transition: Liberal approaches Malcolm Fraser (Liberal prime minister 1975–83) engineered the circumstances that led to Whitlam’s dismissal (Kelly, 1983), then presided over a brief caretaker government until an election could be held, and Whitlam was defeated. He had been party leader for less than a year prior to this controversial ‘constitutional coup’. His months as opposition leader had been devoted to outmanoeuvring Whitlam: his primary avowed task in so far as it was announced was to stem what he and his supporters saw as the profligacy and bad management of the Whitlam years. The big spending of the reform project was to be curtailed; the institution of sound processes of management, particularly in the operation of cabinet, was a priority. Margaret Thatcher, preparing a visit to Australia in 1976, was said to be fascinated to learn how Fraser had succeeded ‘without having any policy’ (Young, 1990: 129). What was first evident in the transition was how leadership would be exercised. It followed the practices Fraser adopted in former ministerial roles. From the mid-1960s through to the early 1970s he had developed a particular administrative style: intense application, immense demands on

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his staff, advice from personal networks, canvassing a range of opinion, then a personal decision (Weller, 1989). He rapidly instituted patterns of work in the transition that were to characterize his government. Fraser put great effort into formalizing cabinet processes, managing the paper flow, formulating the agenda and being well-briefed on every item that came before it. His was from the outset a government of constant consultation, the obverse of Whitlam’s style. He gained respect and concurrence: one study of his colleagues ascribed to him the characteristics of a transformational leader who gained respect, set high standards, communicated expectations of high performance, demanded identification of key aspects of complex problems, required opinions to be backed by sound reasoning and imparted a sense of mission (Hede and Wear, 1995). His style has been summarized thus: [Fraser] … knew what was happening in all areas of government; he pushed ministers to consider the options. He left as little as possible to chance, exploring ideas and trying to assess the outcomes. He tested propositions by interrogating their advocates, trying to understand the basics of their argument. He … [argued] that an understanding of the detail was the necessary prerequisite for seeing the broader picture (Weller, 1989: 399). Fraser also consolidated the resources that Whitlam had introduced – a more powerful, coordinating PM&C and a streamlined personal staff (PMO) tailored to giving him multiple options and a monopoly of information. There was a flip side to this dedication. As the transition progressed it became evident that Fraser, himself tremendously hardworking, expected as much from his colleagues and was not always considerate of them in the way meetings and committees were scheduled, or the volume of business he pushed through cabinet. Everything was interrogated, with insufficient discrimination between decisions that were important and those that were relatively minor and could have been dealt with more efficiently outside cabinet. His interpersonal dealings were awkward: ‘A shy man, who found it difficult to encourage others with bonhomie and humour, Fraser dealt with colleagues by being single minded and determined’ (Weller, 1989: 401). His constant attention was perceived by some ministers as a failure of trust, and his single mindedness as confrontational and ruthless. It was a dynamic that generated tension (even fear) and that ended in government by exhaustion: ‘Too much time, too many papers, too much consultation, too much interference in ministerial or departmental affairs …’ (Weller, 2007: 157). Fraser’s administrative style made him the centre of networks that were difficult to challenge: he was the repository of the knowledge needed to make authoritative decisions. But his incapacity to delegate, his urge to be

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fully versed and oversee every policy option also had a paralysing effect. The weight of detail and excess of knowledge became an enemy of sure judgement. Belying his reputation for ruthlessness and imperiousness, he lacked nerve as a decision-maker. He was also the victim of the brinkmanship that brought him power – not wanting to exacerbate the divisions unleashed by the constitutional crisis of 1975, he felt condemned to constraint (Ayres, 1987: 304–6). While it was common to represent Fraser as the harbinger of Thatcher and Reagan, within the parliamentary party he came to be regarded as insufficiently rigorous. The conventional Party critique of Fraser came to be that he led a government of lost opportunities (Ayres, 1987: 304; Richardson, 2001). The Liberal-National Party coalition remained in opposition for 13 years following Fraser’s defeat in 1983. There were attempts at reformulating image and policy to indicate how a return to government would be approached, with a Future Directions package (steered by John Howard) in 1988 and, more rigorously, with then leader John Hewson’s economic programme, Fightback!. Introduced in November 1991, it was the platform for contesting the 1993 election. Hewson proved inept at selling this radical free-market programme (Walter, 1996: 70–6), suffering relentless demolition of his position at the hands of then Labor prime minister Paul Keating (Gordon, 1993: ch. 10; Watson, 2002: ch. 9). Hewson lost an election many had thought unlosable, and was politically finished soon thereafter. Eventually, stalwart former party leader John Howard was redeemed and returned to the helm at a time when the long-serving Labor government was well and truly on its last legs. The Liberals had to think again about a future transition. Their solution was to focus on values and the government’s failings. Policy discussion proceeded within the leadership, but Howard prepared for the 1996 campaign by relying ‘on statements of his broad approach to politics to stave off the inevitable press gallery demands for policies. He put these ideas into a series of speeches … [that] showed voters he really did stand for something, but without the sort of detail that can trip up oppositions’ (Errington and van Onselen, 2007: 217–18). Despite very different circumstances, this was a reversion to Fraser’s tactic of outmanoeuvring government ‘without having any policy’. The perception was that in 1996 the Coalition government ‘eschewed formal transition planning, believing it had cruelled its prospects in the 1993 election campaign’ (Tiernan, 2008: 61). It was an election in which the Liberal machine managed image adroitly, but which Labor lost rather than the Coalition won (Williams, 1997). John Howard (Liberal prime minister 1996–2007) dominated for a decade, but his initial transition was at odds with the surety and discipline he was to develop as he grew in the role. One observer of that earlier period captures the tenor of commentary at that time: ‘Within 18 months, the Federal Government has squandered a 45-seat majority. John Howard’s colleagues attribute the blame to him personally, and the criticisms of his leadership in the late

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1980s are being revived’ (FJB, 1998: 47). His predecessor, John Hewson, criticized Howard’s populism, pragmatism and misjudgement. Key Liberal Party supporter Lloyd Williams accused the government of being ‘totally out of step’ in its approach to Asia. Key expert bodies such as the Productivity Commission and the Wallis Inquiry (into the financial system) found fault with the pace of reform. Widespread business criticisms of weak leadership were condensed in a stinging rebuke from Rupert Murdoch, ‘who declared Australia would become a backwater if it failed to implement a radical reform agenda’. In response, Howard’s cabinet was compelled to develop ‘a strategy to counter claims that it lacked vision and purpose’ (Ward, 1997: 223). What generated such criticisms? Hewson was reacting to Howard’s failure firmly to disown the populist anti-immigrant and anti-‘Aboriginal industry’ sentiments of Queensland-based populist and political comet Pauline Hanson. Business was provoked by tardiness in introducing reform, reactive decisions that appeared to be taken by a few ministers outside cabinet, failure to adopt Wallis Inquiry recommendations, and threats to trade with Asia. To this could be added decisions that provoked the ‘moral middle class’ (Brett, 2003) by appearing politically driven: redefinition of election commitments differentiating ‘core’ and ‘non-core’ promises; ad hoc public service reform, with political acolytes installed in key posts; budget cuts and sackings of departmental secretaries; a sweep of the boards of statutory bodies, stacking them with coalition allies; swingeing cuts to the ABC; ill-informed criticism of, and funding cuts to, tertiary education providers; precipitate changes to immigration regulations; and failure to address the High Court’s decisions concerning Aboriginal land rights. More damaging was Howard’s postelection introduction of a code of ministerial conduct, which fuelled instability when it led to the demise of several ministers. Howard then effectively disowned this code and redefined responsibility. Was this, however, as uncertain a transition as it sometimes seemed? First, despite those early stumbles and failures of judgement, Howard always knew what he was about, even if commentators initially failed to see it. He may, for tactical reasons, have evaded policy detail in his election campaign, but his vision was clear regardless. It entailed: radical industrial relations reform, deficit reduction, further public sector modernization (encouraging private sector provision wherever possible), a conviction that rent-seeking elites dominated most programmes and much service provision (and must be challenged by opening up market competition), a commitment to liberating individual ‘choice’ as the best driver of resource allocation, and a conviction that he was in touch with the core values (‘self reliance, a fair go, pulling together and having a go’) of the mainstream. These elements were signalled in his early speeches (see, e.g. Howard, 1996; Errington and van Onselen, 2007: 206–38), and he would preface every policy initiative with comments showing how it was informed by these core principles, though it was not until his second term that the message began to sink in. Second, Howard had learned the folly

50 Managers or Messiahs?

of frenetic change from his experience in the Fraser government and as an impassioned critic of Whitlam’s transition circus. His approach was always going to be more incremental than theirs, and those who thought at first that nothing much was happening (e.g. Ramsey, 1996) failed to recognize that Howard was there for the long haul. Third – and this, above all, was starkly evident in the transition – he had a sure sense that success depended on controlling the levers of power. Getting ‘his’ men into the key posts; building further on the advisory structures developed by his predecessors (Tiernan, 2006); and driving the public service further towards responsiveness were equally as important as new policy directions, and had to be achieved in tandem. Fourth, he was determined from the outset to run a ‘proper’ cabinet system (Kelly, 2005; Weller, 2007: ch. 10). He would not be as haphazard as Whitlam, nor would he govern by exhaustion as had Fraser, nor would he bury cabinet in business as both had. The ministers who transgressed the ministerial code and had to be removed in his first term provoked cabinet shuffles and reconsideration, which prompted him to reinterpret responsibility as responsibility to the prime minister, and reinforced his conviction that a disciplined cabinet was integral to a long-term government. Unlike Fraser or Whitlam, Howard appeared to learn from the transition setbacks how to put his ideas about using the levers of power and running cabinet properly more effectively into practice. He became the most effective practitioner of cabinet government in 30 years: running ideas though the party room and into cabinet, insisting on cabinet debate, focusing presentations, listening to views but then locking his colleagues into cabinet determinations and achieving a dominance that deterred dissidents and leaks (Weller, 2007: ch. 10).

Styles of taking over: Comparison and discussion There are consistent differences in the way the major parliamentary parties have managed their transitions to government. The Labor Party favours planning, relying upon programmatic policy development, calculated reform of the machinery of government and identified change facilitators. Responding to challenge, the Liberal Party has experimented with such transition maps, (Howard’s Future Directions, 1988, Hewson’s Fightback! 1991–93), but the failure of the latter saw the Party revert to its default position; caution about overt planning and reliance upon the quality of leadership, the leader’s ability to articulate values, and political tactics to win power ‘without policy’, as Margaret Thatcher curiously noted. Both Fraser and Howard came to power this way, but the pattern has a long history (see Brett, 2003: 30–3). Deepseated predispositions may be an influence: conservatives have always suspected planning to be a step towards state socialism; social democrats usually commit to systemic change (and Whitlam testified that Labor’s thwarted postwar reconstruction plans were his initial inspiration).

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How significant has planning been in successful transitions to government? Whitlam demonstrated, for instance that fealty to a programme can impede a government’s ability to adapt to changing circumstances. On the other hand, Howard offered few hostages to fortune, but his government appeared bedevilled by uncertainty in the transition and it fostered cynicism by attempting to redefine broad campaign commitments after election to distinguish between ‘core’ and ‘non-core’ promises. Hawke in contrast was gifted with a transition plan that worked well for the mechanics of government, but he did not hesitate to drop expansionary policies that conflicted with ‘responsible’ economics. His success was in how he managed the transition. In the cases studied here, the decisive factor in how transitions play out proves be the personal style of the leader. The Whitlam plan for government had an enduring influence: its best features would be a template for later ALP planning, and the institutional reforms it triggered (enabling more powerful coordination through PM&C, augmented information resources, public service responsiveness, enhanced ministerial staff, contestable advice) would be adopted and developed further by subsequent governments of both complexions. It was inadequate decision processes and implementation that hobbled Whitlam’s achievement. His gifts as an inspirational leader, a messiah who could persuade true believers that they could change the world, were not fitted for the more mundane tasks of team-building, negotiation, collective determination, or adaptability when the ground shifted (Walter, 1980: ch. 8). Howard, in contrast, with no discernible transition plan, was judged harshly in the transition phase, but came to be seen as the most effective antiLabor leader of the post-war period. Did he, however, learn from and change as a result of the transition? What is clear is a dogged consistency in his underlying tenets and approach; what he learned from the mis-steps of the transition was to hew even closer to his convictions, to control the levers of power and to exert discipline in cabinet and, through cabinet, over government. The two most successful leaders in this group in terms of longevity, and of political impact, were Hawke and Howard. Hawke generated adulation but not inspiration; Howard was a low key but effective political communicator; neither of them had the gift of Whitlam to make individuals believe that, as one true believer opined, they could ‘do anything, or be anything’. The first lesson to draw from this is that sound management is a better predictor of survival and success than inspirational leadership. That said, they were very different managers: Hawke was a negotiator and broker, oriented to finding accommodations between interests; Howard showed all the traits of a ‘strong-leader’ (Little, 1988), treating impediments as crises that only discipline and authority could overcome (Walter and Strangio, 2007: ch. 1). Hayden’s plan in 1983 was a gift to Hawke, but Hawke adapted it to economic imperatives, managed a successful transition and developed a formidable team; the skills exercised then would contribute to the longer-term achievements of his government. Howard’s transition might be the least

52 Managers or Messiahs?

successful of the set, but persuaded him to rely on his core skills and assert an authority that served him well, at least until the habit of power eroded his once acute political instincts towards the end of his term (Walter, 2008). Hawke’s was the most successful government in the period under consideration. Despite intense egotism, Hawke did not rely on dominating those with whom he worked to affirm his importance: he found it instead in his ‘love affair with the Australian people’. On one hand, this freed him from the drive for control that preoccupied most of his fellow prime ministers – he could steer with a light rein. On the other, confidence as to his own indispensability gave him authority and his focus on consensus decisionmaking facilitated team-building and allowed others to develop policy detail while he set the direction of government to which all would commit. He could understand and analyse a brief superbly, but he would not get lost in detail and information in the way that Fraser did (and perhaps Rudd might). He was a global thinker who spoke in broad terms of the need for economic reform, but in practice focused on processes rather than outcomes. He would be lambasted as lacking vision, but he was not tied to grand programme objectives and could avoid the cul de sac in which Whitlam found himself and the rigidity that dogged Howard’s final term. In 2007, with Rudd Labor again came to power with a plan and it served well during the transition: initial assessments were positive and public support remained high. Rudd was not an inspirational leader, despite speaking effectively to some intelligent symbolic initiatives (the Kyoto protocol, the apology to Indigenous Australians). He neither elaborated core principles (like Howard), nor a grand narrative (like Whitlam). He appeared (with Fraser and Howard) to be towards the controlling and dominating end of the spectrum, attuned to organization but unable to drive with a light rein, or to develop skills as a negotiator who governs through consensus and develops a team. Persistent rumours of public effectiveness, but private dysfunction (in relation to unsustainable demands on personal staff and the APS) signified a failure to recognize organizational limitations. A successful transition was not enough: closeted decision processes compounded political misjudgement to erode his popular support; immersion in detail impeded policy progress; and refusal to heed caucus built a store of resentment that would be unleashed to bring him down once the tide of opinion turned. Rudd’s spectacular fall provides another instance of the folly of leader dominance that disregards party restraint. This discussion indicates that a bias towards management, team-building and accommodation is a better predictor of a successful transition to power and effective leadership thereafter than inspirational qualities and grand plans. Granted, at some times, a transformational leader, refusing to accept conventional orthodoxies is a necessity (Roosevelt with his ‘New Deal’ in the 1930s, for instance). And some circumstances licence an element of

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‘craziness’ in a leader (Churchill’s refusal to accept ‘realistic’ assessments of Britain’s position sustained his country in World War II, for example). But in general, drawing lessons from both the Labor and the Liberal patterns, we might conclude that over-reliance on either a plan, or solely on a leader, is to be avoided. Transition planning can facilitate the bridge into government, but the nature of leadership is also decisive. A leader whose authority is accepted, but exercised with a light rein, drawing on plans that are not too rigidly interpreted, and managing talented collaborators, offers the best prospect for transition success and political longevity.

Bibliography ALP (2004) Machinery of Government: The Labor Approach (Canberra: Australian Labor Party Policy Document). Anson, S. (1991) Hawke: An Emotional Life (Ringwood: McPhee Gribble). Ayres, P. (1987) Malcolm Fraser (Richmond: William Heinemann Australia). Brett, J. (2003) Australian Liberals and the Moral Middle Class (Melbourne: Cambridge University Press). Burke, J. (2000) Presidential Transitions: From Politics to Practice (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner). Button, J. (2002) Beyond Belief: What Future for Labor? (Melbourne: Black Inc.). Errington, W. and van Onselen, P. (2007) John Winston Howard: The Biography (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press). FJB (1998) ‘Best forgotten’ (Political Notes), Australia and World Affairs, 35, 47–51. Freudenberg, G. (2003) ‘The passionate persuader’, in S. Ryan and T. Bramston (eds) The Hawke Government: A Critical Retrospective (Melbourne: Pluto Press), pp. 88–97. Gordon, M. (1993) A Question of Leadership: Paul Keating, Political Fighter (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press). Grattan, M. (2008) ‘Much to do and to care about’, Age, 14 March. Hawke, B. (1994) The Hawke Memoirs (Melbourne: William Heinemann). Hayden, B. (1996) An Autobiography (Sydney: Angus & Robertson). Hede, A. and Wear, R. (1995) ‘Transformational versus transactional styles of cabinet leadership in Australian politics’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 30, 469–84. Hennessy, P. (1997) ‘The Blair style of government: An historical perspective and an interim audit’, Government and Opposition, 33(1), 3–20. Hennessy, P. (2001) The Prime Minister: The Office and Its Holders Since 1945 (London: Penguin). Howard, J. (1996) ‘The Liberal tradition: The beliefs and values which guide the federal government’, 1996 Sir Robert Menzies Memorial Lecture. Kelly, P. (1983) The Dismissal: Australia’s Most Sensational Power Struggle – The Dramatic Fall of Gough Whitlam (Sydney: Angus & Robertson). Kelly, P. (1984) The Hawke Ascendancy: A Definitive Account of its Origins and Climax, 1975–1983 (Sydney: Angus & Robertson). Kelly, P. (2005) Rethinking Australian Governance – The Howard Legacy, Occasional Paper Series 4/2005 (Canberra: Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia). Kelly, P. (2007) ‘Rudd would seize more power as PM’, The Australian, 7 November. Kelly, P. (2009) The March of Patriots: The Struggle for Modern Australia (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press).

54 Managers or Messiahs? Kumar, M. and Sullivan, T. (eds) (2003) White House World: Transitions, Organization and Office Operations (College Station, TX: A&M University Press). Little, G. (1988) Strong Leadership: Thatcher, Reagan and An Eminent Person (Melbourne: Oxford University Press). Lloyd, C. and Reid, G. (1974) Out of the Wilderness: The Return of Labor (Melbourne: Cassell). Macklin, R. (2008) Kevin Rudd: The Biography (Melbourne: Viking/Penguin). Milne, G. (2008) ‘Rudd rides high but wears out weary staffers’, The Australian, 3 November. Murphy, K. (2008) ‘Rudd’s will to power’, The Age, 29 March. Ramsey, A. (1996) ‘The longest 45 days’, Sydney Morning Herald, 17 April. Richardson, C. (2001) ‘The Fraser years’, in J. Nethercote (ed.) Liberalism and the Australian Federation (Leichhardt: Federation Press), pp. 214–29. Stuart, N. (2007) Kevin Rudd: An Unauthorised Biography (Carlton: Scribe). Tiernan, A. (2006) ‘Advising Howard: Interpreting changes in advisory and support structures for the Prime Minister of Australia’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 41(3), 309–24. Tiernan, A. (2008) ‘The Rudd transition’, Papers on Parliament Number 49 (Canberra: Department of the Senate, Parliament House), pp. 59–77. Walter, J. (1980) The Leader: A Political Biography of Gough Whitlam (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press). Walter, J. (1986) The Ministers’ Minders: Personal Advisers in National Government (Melbourne: Oxford University Press). Walter, J. (1996) Tunnel Vision: The Failure of Political Imagination (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Walter, J. (2008) ‘Is there a command culture in politics? The Canberra case’, in P. ’t Hart and J. Uhr (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practices (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 189–202. Walter, J. and Strangio, P. (2007) No, Prime Minister: Reclaiming Politics from Leaders (Sydney: UNSW Press). Ward, I. (1997) ‘Political chronicle, July–December, 1996: Commonwealth’, Australian Journal of Politics and History, 43(2), 217–24. Watson, D. (2002) Recollections of a Bleeding Heart: A Portrait of Paul Keating PM (Sydney: Knopf). Weller, P. (1983) ‘Transition: Taking over power in 1983’, Australian Journal of Public Administration, XLII(3), 303–19. Weller, P. (1989) Malcolm Fraser PM: A Study in Prime Ministerial Power in Australia (Ringwood: Penguin). Weller, P. (2007) Cabinet Government in Australia, 1901–2006 (Sydney: UNSW Press). Whitlam, G. (1979) The Truth of the Matter (Ringwood: Allen Lane). Whitlam, G. (1985) The Whitlam Government: 1972–1975 (Ringwood: Penguin). Wilenski, P. (1986) ‘Administrative reform – General principles and the Australian experience’, Public Administration, 64, 257–76. Williams, P. (1997) The Victory (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Young, H. (1990) One of Us: A Biography of Margaret Thatcher (London: Pan Books).

4 Establishing Prime Ministerial Leadership Style in Opposition Wayne Errington

Introduction Those who make the transition from leading the opposition to leading the government are, by virtue of winning an election, successful leaders. Yet, the early months and years of new governments are often mistake-ridden and directionless. Some new prime ministers, like Britain’s Tony Blair, have little or no prior experience in executive government. Blair’s press secretary, Alastair Campbell, observed that Blair’s office had ‘hung on to some of the techniques and ways of opposition for too long’ and ‘the spin thing’ became a bigger issue as a result (BBC News, 9 May 2002). Australian Prime Minister John Howard, though an experienced minister in a previous government and ultimately a successful prime minister, struggled to control the issue agenda during his first term from 1996. By contrast, Howard’s successor, Kevin Rudd, steadfastly refused to compromise the relationship he built with the electorate as opposition leader and reaped political dividends as a result. This chapter contrasts the demands of leading the opposition with those of leading the government and considers how often the skills to manage both types of leadership can be found in the same person. Four prime ministers are compared, two British and two Australian, two Labour (or Labor, in the Australian spelling) – Blair and Rudd – and two conservative (from the Liberal Party of Australia and the British Conservative Party) – Howard and Margaret Thatcher. The Howard case study builds upon the extensive research I conducted while writing his biography (Errington and van Onselen, 2007). The other cases rest on secondary analysis of the subjects’ speeches, media reports and interviews as well as studies by other scholars (which were amply available on Thatcher and Blair in particular). The comparative case analysis is designed to illustrate – not test – a number of key leadership style variables at play in a transition from opposition to government. Case examples will be used throughout the chapter to amplify the general argument. 55

56 Establishing Prime Ministerial Leadership Style in Opposition

Leadership style Most of the scholarly analysis of political leadership deals with heads of government or cabinet ministers. They are the actors who can transform politics and society. The differences between opposition and government, and the consequences for governments of the leadership style adopted while in opposition, are less well understood. Where leadership style is a matter of psychology, we would not expect too many differences in managing the transformation from opposition to the treasury benches. Whatever the temperament of a political leader, though, organization and tactical requirements clearly differ between opposition and government. Governments have enormous resource advantages over their opponents, making patronage, and therefore stability, easier. Prime ministers are often in a good position to contrast the strength of their decision-making with the weakness and opportunism of their opponents. Most importantly, governments have the advantage of being able to formulate and implement policy, and the disadvantage of being held responsible when things outside their control go wrong. Taking the idea of leadership style and examining its development in opposition and during the transition to government adds another level of complexity. The notion of leadership style has its proponents within political science, mainly within its subfield of political psychology. It also has its critics, mostly found within comparative politics. Comparative studies of prime ministers tend to focus on differences in the structure and relative power of the office. Rose (1991) argues that to the extent that distinct leadership styles are discernible, they are governed by institutional structures such as the party system and other variables that allow a greater or lesser centralization of power. Pessimism about the ability of scholars to account for contingent factors such as leadership is not limited, of course, to the study of parliamentary democracy. However, decades of painstaking micro-level research into leadership style have left a rich, multidisciplinary theoretical and empirical literature, with variables as diverse as type of pre-presidential career (executive or legislative background) or studies of birth order in the families of prominent leaders (e.g. Valenty and Feldman, 2002). Psychological approaches to the notion of ‘strong leadership’ types (Bennister, 2008: 335) are popular in the assessment of prime ministers (see also Little, 1988). Leadership style arises from a combination of the leader’s personality and ideology, as well as the circumstances and institutional factors faced by individual leaders. Or as Bennister described it, individual leadership style is subject to ‘location, relation, environment and events’ (2008: 335). Not all the variables discussed in the literature are of interest to a study of the leadership style of parliamentary opposition leaders. One factor that the opposition period can shape (and reveal to the public) is the motivation to

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lead, something that Kaarbo (1997) has discussed with respect to the foreign policy decision-making of prime ministers. Leaders can be motivated by ideology, a desire for public approval or personal gain. Psychological factors, of course, will influence motivation. Yet, opposition forces leaders to reveal preferences about the sort of government they aspire to, and the means they intend to use to achieve it. Richardson et al. (1982) complement the familiar transformational and transactional leadership styles by differentiating between goals and methods. Terms such as imposition and consensus, anticipatory and reactive, help us understand the ways in which leaders approach their tasks. However, such typologies assume a goal-oriented leadership style, whereas leaders may be first and foremost office-holders who enjoy wielding power but are not motivated by any particular ends. Presidential style is much discussed in the United States, both among scholars and the political class (e.g. Greenstein, 2009). By comparison the office of the prime minister (as opposed to those who have held it) is a less popular subject for style-centred analysis, although scholarship has been increasing in recent decades (Walter, 2008). Prime ministers of course learn to lead on the job, or from their direct observations of the job, rather than imbibing scholarship about the office (King, 1991: 30). The length of the previous administration is one important variable. For example, replacing long-term governments, neither Blair nor Rudd had experience as cabinet ministers. Their experience of prime ministerial style in the parliamentary chamber was provided by leaders of the opposing party. Blair was not shy of admitting that Thatcher provided him with an example of successful leadership. Rudd, too, selected elements of his style based on the success of the man he sought to replace as prime minister. Conversely, Thatcher and Howard both served under leaders whom they would later criticize. Howard was explicit in attempting to run a more business-like cabinet than did Malcolm Fraser. While Thatcher may not have liked the comparison, she clearly learned something about a domineering leadership style from Edward Heath (King, 1991: 31). I will argue below that time served and experiences gained as opposition leader are important, but overlooked, shapers of prime ministerial leadership style. Institutional variables play a role here in that Australian parliamentary leaders are easier to replace than their British counterparts. Blair and Thatcher both led their parties for much longer than Howard and Rudd prior to winning an election. An ineffective opposition leader will quickly be replaced in Australia by a vote of the parliamentary party. While this results in considerable leadership instability, it also means that an opposition leader elected a year or so from an election will be greeted with a voter honeymoon and diminished expectations of a detailed policy platform (much to the frustration of the prime minister). Indeed, the last Australian opposition leader to spend a considerable amount of time in the job prior to winning an election was Gough Whitlam (1972).

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Opposition leadership as a formative experience For a new prime minister fresh from an election victory, the tactics developed in opposition will be credited (rightly or wrongly) with the success of the party in the electoral contest. Moreover, the leader will be credited with the party’s success. The circular logic of modern campaigning reinforces itself – a combination of media and institutional factors give the party leaders the bulk of the campaign emphasis, newly elected backbenchers owe their loyalty to the successful leader, and the leader is in turn given latitude to shape the fortunes of the government as minds swiftly turn to the next election. In spite of the obvious differences between the day-to-day requirements of government and opposition, there are few incentives for a successful leader to change the way she cultivates her relationship with the electorate after an election victory. An opposition has one over-arching goal – winning the next election. Government leaders live immediately with any compromises they make for the purposes of political expediency. In terms of leadership style, few opposition leaders have the strength to impose policy positions on their parliamentary team, and while they can play an important role in the parliament, they are usually making decisions based on the agenda set by the government. Of Richardson et al.’s (1982) policy styles, then, opposition leaders can be anticipatory or reactive. This dichotomy might be expressed in electoral terms as big target/small target approaches to policy formulation – whether the opposition wants the government or themselves to be foremost in the minds of voters. Opposition leaders usually have little choice but to respond to an agenda set by governments. While an alternative government does not want to be seen as purely reactive (Uhr, 2009: 68), they are ultimately judged in comparison to the government rather than some objective standard of what opposition should be about. However, leaders who present the electorate with a modest set of achievable promises can, by establishing a pattern of trust with voters, establish themselves for a dominant period of government. The program laid out in opposition may say more about short-term tactics than long-term vision. Still, opposition leaders are preparing the ground for governing styles that can feature imposition or consensus. They might, for example, seek to contrast their style with that of the incumbent (to be more decisive, in Thatcher’s case, or more humble in Howard’s). In Westminster parliaments the opposition’s role, as Kaiser (2008: 21) puts it, is primarily ‘to give voters on election day the possibility of making informed decisions between the two different political teams and policy packages’. While in recent decades cabinet formation at the provincial level in Australia has become somewhat more complex with a number of minority governments, the political culture remains adversarial. In Britain, the leader of the second-largest party is the ‘main opposition leader’, not the only

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opposition leader. Further studies of the role of leadership in the transition from opposition to government in systems where multi-party cabinets are the norm will provide an even greater range of possibilities. Successful opposition leadership is more than simply a first step along the path towards achieving goals. Changing leadership styles involves developing the leader’s relationship with their colleagues and their electorate – electoral tactics can conceivably be disposed of when surrounded by the resources of government. However, a calculating leader hiding from the electorate the type of transformation they have in mind is hardly an approach for long-term success. Some type of crisis may prod a leader to change their style, but while an election victory would instil a leader with greater self-confidence, it would normally only confirm their beliefs in the most effective style of leadership. We can, of course, cite examples of leaders who promised from opposition a transformation in government. Some, like Thatcher, largely succeeded, though with an important time lag between getting elected and acting upon her underlying ambitions – time needed to assert her authority within cabinet, party and country. Others, such as the Australian opposition leader from the early 1990s, John Hewson, found the electorate a frustration to their ambitions. Whitlam was elected on a programme of reform only to find new obstacles to the fulfilment of his goals. It has become more common in parliamentary systems for opposition leaders to promise modestly in order to ensure that the government’s fortunes are the main target of media exposure. Such leaders still need to justify a change of government. Hence, opposition leaders appeal to the need for a transformation of personnel – that the government is tired, incompetent or unethical (or some combination of these). Ethical transformation was high on the agenda of the leaders dealt with here. Tony Blair benefitted from a series of ministerial scandals under the British Conservative Party in the 1990s. John Howard promised greater honesty and higher ministerial standards. Rudd placed a high value on meeting election commitments, yet the overwhelming impression was that he got across the line mainly, and merely, because he and his team projected youthful vigour yet largely promised policy consistency (‘I am a fiscal conservative’, Rudd assured the electorate, which doubted his party’s macro-economic credentials). Opposition leaders are, in a sense, always insisting on transformation. Some, such as Whitlam and Thatcher, taking over from unpopular or ineffective governments, give the transformation message its full effect. Howard, Blair and Rudd, by contrast, were angling for some combination of stability and change. Given the modern emphasis in modern parliamentary elections on the party leader, the choices made by those leaders affect the balance eventually found in government between continuity and transformation. Words and numbers: The tools of opposition leadership Scholars have long recognized that ‘the confidence-vote that really matters for oppositions is the vote of public confidence’ (Uhr, 2009: 70). Opposition

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leaders, for whom words are the primary (and often only) means to gain public confidence, leave a verbal legacy for themselves to deal with in government. Unlike multi-party systems, where the electorate is aware of the fact that promises made in opposition are subject to post-election coalition negotiations, Westminster systems provide leaders with the opportunity and responsibility to turn rhetoric into action. While the prime minister’s most important contemporary role is that of chief government salesperson, there is the non-trivial business of ensuring that the country is run smoothly, and the dividends brought by sound policy. Government promises will be judged by the electorate in the context of a record in power. Still, Thatcher’s government faced a good deal of opposition from civil society, a reminder that prevailing in policy terms goes well beyond winning elections. Where governments can change the political agenda through their actions, and make their pronouncements sufficiently vague to leave options open, opposition leaders often face demands from the media and from government ministers to rule certain policies in or out. John Howard found in 1995 that the only way he could take a consumption tax off the agenda for the 1996 election was to rule it out not just for the next parliament but forever (‘never, ever’ were his words), something he never ever lived down as the ramshackle nature of the existing indirect tax system provoked a rethink in government. Kevin Rudd’s conspicuous promise to end the ‘blame game’, directed primarily at federal structures but inevitably applied more broadly, had the effect in government of limiting the extent to which he could credibly blame the previous government for Australia’s ills after his election in 2007. Numbers can be just as important as words – particularly the numbers in Australia’s powerful upper houses. These chambers have been made more legitimate with the gradual introduction of proportional representation, with governments rarely afforded the opportunity of control of both houses. Opposition leaders, though, use those numbers with care. Powerful upper houses can be a useful tool for chief ministers in containing the ambitions of their more zealous followers. Centrist leaders can blame the failure to implement the most radical elements of the party platform to an unsympathetic second chamber. Opposition leaders can be complicit in this strategy by overplaying their role in parliament and not allowing voters to judge the consequences of a government’s true policy preferences. An obstructionist parliament can more generally complicate the neat lines of responsibility that are (supposedly) the chief advantage of a two-party system, with opposition parties blamed by governments for blocking vital reforms. Whitlam methodically took a programme of reform to the 1972 election, claimed a mandate to implement his policies and called an early double dissolution election in 1974 when parts of his programme were blocked in the Senate. The fact that the subsequent joint sitting remains the only instance of a prime minister using this constitutional provision to break a deadlock between the

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two houses indicates that opposition leaders have been cautious in their use of the upper house at Commonwealth level. The role of opposition in upper houses is further complicated by the fact that the opposition wants primarily to be the government, and therefore likes to be witnessed by the electorate to be finding constructive solutions and compromises on legislation. The opposition leader therefore treads a line between a desire to build credibility as an alternative prime minister and the genuine ideological (or simply partisan) opposition to government policy that motivates followers inside and outside the parliamentary team. It is this element of opposition leadership which, notionally, can be easier to manage in government, where the leader’s power of patronage ensures that threats are less than idle. However, the leader’s often painful personal experience of division in opposition, more so than any theory of how government should work, can dominate decision-making on how to manage intra-party differences. Rudd’s approach to party discipline as prime minister was to remind his party-room about his bond with the electorate, sometimes in rather colourful terms. The winning formula How much transformation can be advocated, then, before it gets too much? Thatcher stands apart among our cases as a leader promising extensive change from opposition and delivering much of it, eventually, in government. The British tradition of party manifestos somewhat institutionalizes this approach. Yet, understanding the environment in which this determined leadership style succeeds is crucial. An economic downturn need not bring forth a new approach to economic management, and not every economic crisis is fatal to an incumbent government. Blair and Howard both learned from earlier attempts by opposition leaders who promised extensive reform from opposition, and were rejected either by the party (as was the case with Howard in 1989), or by the electorate, or both. In his first period as opposition leader (from 1985), Howard modelled himself in part on Thatcher. Having been a fairly conventional political figure during the Fraser Government, Howard found a rationale to lead in promoting new economic ideas within his party, only to find that the Australian public hostile to a programme of privatization and small government. Howard had ousted Andrew Peacock in 1985 by suggesting (from the position of deputy leader and shadow treasurer) that the previous coalition government, and by implication the then leader, was insufficiently reformist. As leader, Howard took the coalition further to the right, advocating industrial relations reform and privatization. Such claims were insufficiently reformist for some conservatives, who on the eve of the 1987 election sought a messianic figure in Sir Joh Bjelke-Petersen, the Queensland Premier – and divided the opposition. Howard’s promise of economic transformation was too much for an electorate already weary of the neo-liberalism of the Hawke Labor Government. Many of Howard’s policies would eventually

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be implemented by future governments, but advocating reform proved the wrong approach for opposition on this occasion. John Hewson’s Fightback! was the full neo-liberal platform. Hewson succeeded in transformation of a sort – initiating a change of prime minister, as an increasingly concerned Labor party ditched its long-time PM Bob Hawke in favour of his more combative former Treasurer Paul Keating – but Fightback! cost the Coalition a supposedly unlosable 1993 election. Hewson provided the anti-model for Howard in terms of both style and substance. Keating’s skills as a political street fighter saw off Hewson and Fightback!. With Howard removing the sharp ideological edges from coalition policy, Keating’s aggressive style would be left exposed. The Goods and Services Tax (GST) provided the largest target in 1993, but Howard was aware that promising to remove the single-payer health insurance system, Medicare, was electoral poison. Keating’s boredom with adversarial politics, exemplified by his reduction of question time appearances from four to two days a week, only provided more ammunition for the opposition. Once again, Thatcher was not a helpful model for an Australian opposition with similar policy preferences. Promising policy transformation from opposition, then, was out of fashion in Westminster systems by the mid-1990s. Yet by the same token a potential opposition leader must still convince his party that she will be an effective leader. The idea of a ‘Third Way’ between socialism and free-market capitalism was a convenient label for Blair that navigated neatly between Scylla and Charybdis. It complemented a political strategy that seemed to fit both the goal-oriented and office-holding models. For the most part, Blair was choosing not a coherent new platform but an incoherent blend of old and new ideas, some of them at cross-purposes. One example was crime, where Blair’s mantra of ‘tough on crime, tough on the causes of crime’ captured both the style and the substance of ‘New’ Labour. Blair adopted elements of Conservative populism on crime, an area where rhetoric can often trump record in the minds of voters (Downes, 1998: 191). Expensive programmes aimed at prevention were often undermined by the implementation of toughness on crime (p. 192). Yet, the entire New Labour project was a crucial leadership task for Blair, one that marked him in the eyes of the electorate as suitable for the top job, and one that gave him an enormous sense of purpose. He thus maintained transformational rhetoric at the same time as he dragged the party’s platform to the centre. Howard, on the other hand, moderated his policy stance while adopting a more transactional leadership style. While Howard maintained the purpose of a goal-oriented leader, he was able to adapt to the office-holding style for long enough to win in 1996. He provided reassuring rhetoric to interest groups concerned about his record, most notably on Asian immigration, both inside and outside the Liberal Party. He ensured colleagues that he would be more consultative as leader the second time around. Much to the frustration of the incumbent governments, the positioning of Howard and Blair was enough to

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ensure strong election victories. Keating was frustrated that the Howard he knew was not revealed. Similarly, Conservative advertisements hinting at a devilish Blair underneath the moderate clothing proved ineffective. In addition to the question of just how much and what type of policies to release and when, opposition leaders must respond to the strengths and weaknesses of the leadership style of their opposite number. Having closely observed the failure of Mark Latham’s combative style against Howard in 2004, Kevin Rudd succeeded in adopting the cautious, small target approach that Howard had adopted in 1995–96. Indeed, given the age of the government he faced and the unpopular policies it pursued with a Senate majority, Rudd’s mix of controlled aggression and policy caution contrasted strongly with predecessors Beazley, Latham and Simon Crean who had too much of either but never both. This seemed just as important to the electorate as his match-up with Howard. Rudd was instantly more popular than any of his predecessors as leader of the opposition. The popular view that he was in many respects a younger version of Howard seemed to do him no harm at all (Adams, 2009). At the same time, Rudd had the opportunity to distance himself from Howard on a few important issues such as industrial relations, health and education. Labor supporters may have comforted themselves during the campaign by imagining that their cautious new leader would prove to be more adventurous in office. Yet, Rudd was quite explicit in claiming a personal mandate as a result of the election victory. He underlined the link between himself and the electorate by ostentatiously choosing his own ministry rather than observing party tradition in allowing the party caucus to elect the ministry. It seems doubtful that Rudd chose many ministers who would not have been voted in through the factional system, but the process was aimed at reminding both the voters and the ministry that it was the leader who was responsible for the election victory and the leader who would be held responsible for the fortunes of the government.

Learning to manage government How much, though, does political learning in opposition influence a new PM’s leadership style in government? Margaret Thatcher is a good place to start thinking about this. Her ultimate influence on Britain’s political economy has been debated extensively. The circumstances of her ascension to power are no less controversial. Perceptions of a national crisis, real or imagined, were important to Thatcher’s electoral success but also to her approach to leadership from opposition. Thatcher’s combination of strong leadership ambition, ideological goals and top-down (impositional, in terms of Richardson et al., 1982) means could not have been successful (and would rarely be attempted) in other democratic political systems. After timid beginnings she began to dominate cabinet (though never completely): the British

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political system proved flexible enough to accommodate Thatcher’s style of leadership. The flexibility of cabinet arrangements in Westminster systems allowed Thatcher and the other leaders in our cases to choose structures that suited and reinforced their leadership styles. While structural factors might leave more room for centralized leadership in some systems more so than others, it is also important to recognize the role that determined leaders (or even ineffectual ones) play in shaping convention and tradition in turn (see Rhodes et al., 2009). Blair brought to his prime ministership a strong sense of where previous Labour governments had gone astray, if not a blueprint for how he would manage his government, and sought to centralize decision-making power in his office (Hennessy, 2005: 6). This approach was consistent with developments under the Conservative Government. Unlike Blair and Rudd, Howard had extensive experience of cabinet as treasurer. He envisioned a system that combined the efficiency of centralization with the imperative of consultation that he had learned the hard way in opposition. He also had a strategy to deal with the civil service, sacking a number of department heads. In this area, though, Howard was never confident that he could affect a cultural change, and sought policy advice from consultants throughout his prime ministership. His bond with the electorate gave Howard – like all successful Liberal Party leaders – the freedom to choose ministers and drive policy development. He was mindful, though, of the pace of change that the electorate would accept. Blair’s position was different insofar as there were competing centres of power within the Labour Party, starting with Chancellor Gordon Brown. While Blair was the government’s chief salesman, he shared with Brown ‘policy fiefdoms’ that divided policy development into cabinet subcommittees (Hennessy, 2005: 10). Where Howard wanted cabinet to alert him to any political perils associated with the government’s position, cabinet for Blair was largely a way of providing senior government members with information about decisions made elsewhere. Howard’s eventual success as prime minister came as a direct result of the struggles he faced during his first term. Without the staff turnover forced upon him by a series of minor scandals, the blend of leadership authority and consultation that marked his ‘strong leadership’ phase from 2001 would not have been possible. Even though Howard had firm ideas of what cabinet processes should look like, he had to learn the best way to put them into practice, and find the best personnel to do the job. He claimed a mandate for his more controversial policies but the difficulty Australian governments have in passing legislation through the Senate increases the stakes over this kind of debate. It was Howard the compromiser, though, not Howard the policy innovator who had won the 1996 election. His promise of virtue in government, buttressed by a tough code of ministerial responsibility, came unstuck when a series of ministers were forced to resign over technical breaches. Howard

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never looked entirely confident until 1998, when he floated a tax reform package and squeaked home for another election victory. A renewed policy agenda gave Howard an affirmative argument to make in place of the more defensive posture that brought him his initial success. Cutting across the experiences of our subjects’ transitions to government were legacies of their success at media management from opposition. The ability to deliver a consistent, pithy message to the electorate is one that escapes many leaders of the opposition. It takes discipline – personal and across the party – and it can be difficult for an opposition leader to be noticed on a day-to-day basis. Media appearances are almost all the electorate has to judge the leader of the opposition. It is understandable, then, that one of the chief lessons a new prime minister brings from opposition is the importance of a consistent media message. In government, though, media exposure is not difficult to come by. Everything a prime minister does or says will be reported. While discipline remains crucial and governments are eventually judged by their record, the government’s chief salesman needs something to sell. A policy development apparatus obsessed with communication may not provide the best product. Thatcher’s government was at the forefront of emerging techniques in political marketing. Opposition leaders can learn much from observing their opponents, but so too do other political actors. New prime ministers can find that the media and the public quickly tire of political communication strategies that they have already experienced. Further, the centrality of the leader in the eyes of the media can be misleading. Howard could overrule ministers on policy matters, but his highly structured system of cabinet submissions was chiefly aimed at keeping a united front in public, and ensuring that the prime minister was adequately briefed when appearing in the media. All of this reflected Howard’s cautious approach to the business of government as much as any desire on his part to dominate his government. Communication for Blair was a means of temporarily squaring some of the policy inconsistencies that the New Labour project never fully resolved. He could reassure voters about what the Third Way did not mean, but had a much tougher task in explaining what it did mean. Government spokespeople at cross-purposes was an obvious risk. The imperatives of communication were thus built into the policy-making apparatus, designed to enhance the appearance of policy coherence and a public image of government unity as much as effective delivery. The media’s obsession with Blair’s communication strategy took attention away from the many achievements of his first year in office – including devolution, an independent central bank, human rights legislation and the Northern Ireland peace process. Due in no small part to the ways in which their leadership unfolded in opposition, Blair developed a governing apparatus in which policy ideas flourished but the mechanics of implementation proved difficult, while

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Howard developed a streamlined system of policy implementation that suffered from the confused ideological position that Howard took into the prime ministership. Where Blair’s style often lacked coherence, Howard often lacked an agenda in his first term. While in some respects fortunate to have an agenda thrust upon him in the shape of a financial crisis, Rudd entered the prime ministership with a strong sense of how modern government is managed. The electorate seemed to care little that he lacked the vision of earlier Labor prime ministers. Rudd’s experience as cabinet secretary in Queensland in the early 1990s gave him the management experience at the core of executive government lacking in almost all of his fellow frontbenchers. He was determined to deliver on his albeit modest promises and provide no surprises to the electorate. Rudd very publicly declared himself an ‘economic conservative’ at his party’s policy launch during the 2007 campaign. The financial crisis that enveloped the global economy 12 months after his election could have given Rudd the perfect pretence with which to abandon many of the conservative economic policies he took to the people. Yet, while Rudd has sought to sharpen the ideological differences between the parties in a rhetorical sense, by labelling his opponents as neo-liberal extremists, he had no intention of abandoning the (neo-liberal) policy framework of successive Australian governments. Even before the depths of the financial crisis, some of Rudd’s followers were advising him to ditch election promises – in particular the tax cuts that Howard used in a vain attempt to set the agenda of the 2007 election, and which Rudd had largely matched. Sticking with his election commitments after the financial crisis unfolded earned Rudd the criticism that ‘political positioning, not good policy, is driving the government’ (The Australian, 24 April 2009). Those hoping that Rudd’s donning of the cloak of economic conservatism was only for electoral purposes, and who saw the crisis as a terrible thing to waste, were also disappointed. Rudd did not waste the crisis – at least not politically. He used it to add crisis management competence to his list of attributes and maintain dizzyingly high approval ratings throughout 2009. The leader’s bond with the public is dependent not just on policies but in public perceptions of the character of the leader. Opinion polls indicate that honesty is the attribute that voters most value in prospective political leaders. However quaint this desire for honesty can seem to hard-bitten political observers, Rudd’s steadfast refusal to betray the confidence that the electorate showed in him in 2007 was surely the most important factor behind his remarkably high approval ratings as prime minister. Criticism of Rudd’s style – his centralized management style, intense media management and endless policy reviews – mattered little while his government was steering away from the unpopular policies of the previous government. The electorate clearly disagreed with the primary criticism of the opposition (and much of the media) that Rudd and his government

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were ‘all spin and no substance’. When the government ran into trouble in early 2010, it was mainly due to policies developed in response to the financial crisis. The financial crisis was much more damaging to the standing of the British Government, because the crisis was deeper in the UK and because the government had only itself to blame for its predicament. The electorate had already responded to David Cameron, opposition leader from 2005, more positively than to any of Cameron’s predecessors who faced Blair. Indeed, Cameron’s strength in the polls brought into sharper focus the question of just what the Conservatives would do in government. Being forced to make difficult choices about spending priorities while in opposition runs the risk that such policies are electorally unpopular, but could prove to be advantageous once in government.

Learning to speak for the nation When it comes to policy, prime ministers can do things that opposition leaders can only talk about. The importance of talk, though, should not be underestimated. Prime ministers are provided with a unique platform through which to define not just their government and its achievements but the values and direction of the nation as a whole. For example, a confrontational leadership style used to attain electoral victory can in turn damage a leader’s ability to speak for their nation as a whole. In Thatcher’s case, nationalism was a crucial part of her appeal. Yet though she spoke of common ground, her ability to govern without a plurality of votes and free from the constraint of a hostile upper house enabled her to legislate a divisive economic agenda. Thatcher brought to both domestic and foreign policy realms an uncompromising leadership style, in spite of her lack of experience in foreign policy. Nationalism proved an important complement to her domestic programme, promising to restore Britain’s greatness and increasing her popularity with victory in the Falkland Islands war. Blair’s reputation for political spin quickly saw all of his utterances treated with suspicion. Opposition leaders more generally can find it difficult to pivot between negative attacks on government policy and the unifying language of nationalism. While prime ministers, too, can find this balance difficult, the office lends a gravitas to the occupant that is denied to the leader of the opposition. Blair’s job in dealing with nationalism was made easier thanks to an opposition bitterly divided over the question of European integration. Yet, like much of the New Labour project, contradictions abounded in Blair’s approach to nationalism. Labour could claim to be the true national party while the Conservatives were largely restricted to representation in England. Blair put forward his devolution policy as way to strengthen the union rather than weaken it. In contrast to Australia, though, many of the debates over nationalism centred on ultimately pragmatic matters such as devolution and

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the currency. When it came to rhetoric, Blair was accused of endless platitude. Finding the right words after the death of Princess Diana reduced, if only briefly, the widespread cynicism towards Blair’s communication strategies. On those occasions when a nation turns to its leader for reassurance, the image of the cunning politician practised in the art of deception proved difficult to shake, particularly during Blair’s divisive attempt to ‘sell’ British participation in the American invasion of Iraq. James Curran writes of Howard’s challenge to Paul Keating’s republican and cosmopolitan version of Australian nationalism. Howard took ‘every opportunity possible to impress upon the people his vision of the nation’s past and its contemporary relevance’ (2004: 241). Some of his finest speeches mourned national tragedies or marked wartime anniversaries. A politician who was in many respects a divisive figure often rose to the occasion with the right unifying words. Judith Brett (2003), too, noted the importance of Howard’s rhetoric in making the Liberal Party relevant to the times. There was, though, some defensiveness about the way he went about these tasks. Howard was still campaigning against Keating and his ideas well into his prime ministership. He seemed to underestimate the extent to which he, as prime minister, had a unique opportunity to speak for the nation, bringing long-running partisan political arguments to the task. Howard’s response to the Pauline Hanson phenomenon was influenced by his own treatment on the national stage when he was accused of racism in 1988. So ingrained was the idea in some sections of the Liberal Party that they were under siege from unnamed proponents of political correctness, that the fact that they held the levers of power had little effect on their disposition. In turn, figures such as Howard excused themselves from the responsibility of letting Hanson and her supporters know when they had over-stepped the mark of social respectability. This was an odd position for a conservative leader to find himself in. Not all social differences, of course, can be papered over by political rhetoric. Howard spoke of national unity, but was incapable of practising it. Even if Howard had included an apology to the ‘stolen generations’ (of Aboriginal children forcibly removed from their families into care of the state) amongst the government’s responses to the 1997 Bringing Them Home report about the traumas the policies of previous governments had caused, divisive debates over indigenous affairs would have remained. Such an apology may have taken the sting out of the lengthy debate over the legislative response to the High Court’s 1996 Wik decision about indigenous native title to land, but by the same token the juxtaposition of events may have made an apology seem rather hollow. With Howard struggling to find the right balance between partisan and national sentiment, Rudd was able to occupy a sensible centre ground. His dignified apology to indigenous Australians received praise from progressives long frustrated under Howard, but Rudd also led the majority of Australians to

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a position on the symbolism of indigenous affairs with which they seemed comfortable. At the same time, Rudd’s no-nonsense leadership style lent itself to adopting large swathes of sometimes tough ‘practical measures’ on indigenous affairs that Howard had said he preferred to symbolic measures. Again, though, the habits of opposition were hard for Rudd to leave behind. On issues of race, he was content to move only marginally from Howard’s conservative position. Sounding rather Blairite, Rudd formulated a position on asylum seekers that purported to be simultaneously tough and humane. Reflecting this, his government subsequently softened some of the hardest edges of Howard’s uncompromising border control regime – a stance that came to haunt Rudd when the numbers of illegal asylum seeker boat arrivals started to rise again during the end of his first term. He was confronted with the dilemma of staying the course or doing a U-turn in an area that was keenly exploited by the Liberal opposition and always of great, if subconscious, concern to the Australian electorate. All up, Rudd rarely used the unique position of the prime ministership to mark out a new centre ground when he had every opportunity to do so during his first term. Prime ministers can change their staff, their ministers, their cabinet arrangements, their policies, and they can try to change their leadership style. Changing the way that the public views them is a much greater challenge. Demonstrating strong motivation for power can give prime ministers an important platform to discuss issues of national moment. When they use that platform, though, the public still sees the partisan politician. A thoughtful speech is no substitute for flag-waving or decisive action. In this realm, the goal-oriented leader can succeed where the office-holder flounders.

Governing without opposition leadership experience Given Bob Hawke’s brief stint as opposition leader in 1983 prior to his recordbreaking run as longest-serving Australian Labor prime minister, we might conclude that little is lost by a political leader gaining the prime ministership without carrying the weight of leading a fractious opposition. Yet, Hawke’s ability to fight an election as leader and promise a good deal of policy change marks an important point of difference from those leaders who arrive in the top job outside a general election. Strongly performing governments have little reason to change leaders. Replacing an ineffective leader with a new chief minister provides the doubly difficult task of repairing the trust of the voters without the authority of an electoral victory. Of course, a governing party may well wish to replace a scandal- or crisisplagued leader with someone of the office-holding style in order to convey a sense of renewed stability and trust. An electoral mandate can be a constraint on a political leader in addition to being a powerful political tool. A leader who comes to the premiership

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through a party or parliamentary vote rather than a general election may have more freedom of action than a leader who promised much (or little) while in opposition. On the one hand, such leaders generally emerge from the senior levels of the government even if, like Paul Keating in 1991, their challenge to the leader is made from exile on the back benches. While their challenge to the prime minister is an implicit and sometimes explicit repudiation of government policy, they have to be careful in criticizing decisions that they supported as cabinet ministers. As a point of contrast, a leader such as Nathan Rees, New South Wales Premier from 2008 until 2009 and an MP since only 2007, can present as a fresh face untainted by the actions of predecessors, yet perhaps more importantly lack authority with party and electorate. On the other hand, prime ministers are difficult to remove from office in this manner, and a leadership challenge is unlikely to succeed if the existing policy mix has high levels of public support. A new leader may have an opportunity, if not a mandate, to take government policy in a direction that a longstanding incumbent leader is either unwilling or unable to do. Service in the cabinet may be a blessing in terms of experience of government, but raises questions about the leader’s motivation. Why does a successful finance minister need to be prime minister other than for the sake of occupying the office? While leadership destabilization is usually about raw political power more so than philosophical differences, the new leader inevitably requires a public rationale for the change of personnel. Indeed, in Keating’s case, the reason for the challenge was quite literally that it had long been Keating’s turn, since Hawke had some years earlier promised to step down in favour of Keating in return for a continuation of the successful political partnership. (A not dissimilar deal between John Howard and Peter Costello over the Liberal Party leadership emerged publicly in 2006. Costello never challenged Howard, to growing commentariat ridicule). A more polarizing figure than Hawke, Keating proved to be the right leader to take on the ideologically-driven leadership of Coalition leader John Hewson in 1993. Hewson’s detailed policy prescriptions left Hawke floundering (partly because Keating’s departure for the back benches after a first unsuccessful challenge left the government ranks looking decidedly thin) but the Fightback! blueprint proved a giant bulls eye for Keating. To the extent that a long-term cabinet minister risks being equally as jaded as a long-term prime minister, some rationale for their leadership is required. Keating found his rationale for power in opposing Hewson, through which he was able to articulate a set of values in contrast to those of the opposition. This leadership transition undoubtedly won the Labor Government an additional election victory. Keating and Gordon Brown were both long-term, largely successful finance ministers. Circumstances favoured Keating offering new policies, since high unemployment was one of the reasons for Hawke’s declining popularity, and

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Keating as prime minister outlined a new programme of public spending without repudiating his own programme of financial deregulation as treasurer. As Chancellor, Brown had not had a great deal to say about the policy that had most caused Blair to lose public and party-room support – the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Yet, Brown proved unable to quickly wrestle his government loose from the commitments Blair had made to these wars. As long-serving cabinet ministers, Keating and Brown observed the office of the contemporary prime minister at close range. Both came to office with firm ideas about how the prime ministership should work, and had to deal with the legacies of their predecessors. It was arguably Keating who was able to develop a stronger rationale for leading.

Learning to lead in opposition: Conclusions Leadership style is not immutable. The case of John Howard shows that a shaky transition to power need not mean failure for the administration as a whole. The variables discussed in this chapter are less about the success or failure of leaders than about the way they go about the business of leadership. New prime ministers cannot help but be awed by the records of those who previously held the job. There is no shortage of advice, but no how-to manuals on the transition. While the role of opposition is ‘fundamentally one of publicity’ (Uhr, 2009: 63), publicity comes easily to governments. Managing the more complex relationship with followers in the electorate that government demands can be one of the most difficult challenges for prime ministers whose leadership style is usually forged in opposition. The leaders analysed here managed election victories following a series of painful defeats for their respective parties. The cases reveal the interaction between time factors over which leaders have little control (length of opposition leadership, which prime ministers they observed first hand), and the choices leaders make about policy direction and detail. Thatcher had both the time and motivation to develop policies for which she could claim an electoral mandate. She proved a poor model for an Australian opposition whose opponents were already quite Thatcherite. On his return to the leadership, Howard’s motivation to lead was strong, but for both tactical reasons and the short duration of his opposition leadership his electoral mandate (which was very large in terms of numbers of seats won) was weak. Blair made good use of his years as opposition leader, but his leadership motivation was about a centrist politics that was effective from opposition but drew accusations of style over substance in government. Having observed Howard’s strengths and weaknesses, Rudd drew a strong electoral mandate that served him well during the transition to power, but was less useful as a motivation for leadership over time. Much government business is not a matter of fulfilling promises in accordance with the party platform but dealing with problems as they arise and

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managing the executive on a day-to-day basis. The transformation from opposition to government has been completed when the balance between the competing demands of governing and winning elections is found. Blair, Howard and Rudd made varying degrees of adjustment once in office. Others, not for turning, need to get the balance right from opposition.

Bibliography Bennister, M. (2008) ‘Blair and Howard: Predominant Prime Ministers compared’, Parliamentary Affairs, 61(2), 334–55. Brett, J. (2003) Australian Liberals and the Moral Middle Class: From Alfred Deakin to John Howard (Melbourne: Cambridge University Press). Curran, J. (2004) The Power of Speech: Australian Prime Ministers Defining the National Image (Carlton: Melbourne University Press). Downes, D. (1998) ‘Toughing it out: From Labour opposition to Labour government’, Policy Studies, 19(3), 191–8. Errington, W. and van Onselen, P. (2007) John Winston Howard: The Biography (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press). Greenstein, F. I. (2009) The Presidential Difference, 3rd rev. ed. (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Hennessy, P. (2005) ‘Rulers and servants of the state: The Blair style of government 1997–2004’, Parliamentary Affairs, 58(1), 6–16. Kaarbo, J. (1997) ‘Prime Minister leadership styles in foreign policy decision-making: A framework for research’, Political Psychology, 18(3), 553–81. Kaiser, A. (2008) ‘Parliamentary opposition in Westminster democracies: Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand’, Journal of Legislative Studies, 14(1), 20–45. King, A. (1991) ‘The British prime ministership in the age of the career politician’, West European Politics, 12(2), 25–47. Little, G. (1988) Strong Leadership: Thatcher, Reagan and an Eminent Person (Melbourne: Oxford University Press). Rhodes, R. A. W., Wanna, J. and Weller, P. (2009) Comparing Westminster (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Richardson, J., Gustafsson, G. and Jordan, G. (1982) ‘The concept of policy style’, in J. Richardson (ed.) Policy Styles in Western Europe (Boston: Allen & Unwin). Rose, R. (1991) ‘Prime Ministers in parliamentary democracies’, West European Politics, 14, 92–124. Uhr, J. (2009) ‘Parliamentary opposition leadership’, in J. Kane, H. Patapan and P. ’t Hart (eds) Dispersed Democratic Leadership (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Valenty, L. O. and Feldman, O. (eds) (2002) Political Leadership for the New Century: Personality and Behavior among American Leaders (Westport, Conn.: Praeger). Walter, J. (2008) ‘Political leaders and the publics’, International Journal of Applied Psychoanalytic Studies, 5(3), 153–70.

5 Bicameralism and the Dynamics of Contested Transitions John Uhr, Stanley Bach and Louis Massicotte

The legislative dimension of transitions Modern representative democracy is structured around three dimensions or branches of power: executive, legislative and judicial. Conventional approaches to government transition tend to deal with only one: transitions in and out of executive power. Transitions in general are about new concentrations of power but democratic institutional design gives priority to dispersed governmental powers (Kane et al., 2009). Democracies disperse governmental powers across the three branches, which helps explain why incoming governments are so keen to use their influence whenever opportunities arise to stamp their authority on legislatures (e.g. by claiming ‘mandates’) and the courts (e.g. by appointing sympathizers). Some constitutional devices of dispersed power provide even more testing challenges for incoming governments: federalism, for instance, generates something of a plural executive, nesting incoming national governments in a wider set of political executives often with considerable power to affect the transition dynamics of newly elected national executives (Galligan, 2006). The conventional focus on the executive branch makes good sense because often that is where the main transition game is being played. But not always. The two other branches can throw up obstacles and complexities which delay, modify or curtail smooth transitions expected by incoming executive governments. Many studies of government transition ignore the many ways that transitions in and out of executive office are affected by the balance of power in the two other branches. In the limited space of this chapter, we cannot fill this void entirely. We will say little about the place of the judicial branch in structuring government transitions. Our focus instead is on the legislative dimension of transitions. In particular, we focus on the special challenges that bicameral legislatures may create to ‘regime change’ in the executive branch. The term ‘bicameralism’ refers to the system of two-chamber legislative assemblies, with the term ‘senate’ frequently used as the name of the second 73

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chamber. In parliamentary regimes, the first chamber is typically termed the people’s house or the house of government: two terms that reinforce the notion that popular government is legitimately determined in the lower house, where the transition between incoming and outgoing governments occurs. The term ‘unicameralism’ refers to the system of singlehouse legislative assemblies, where all the business of government, including transition, is concentrated in the one house. Thus processes of government transition can differ between unicameral and bicameral systems. Bicameralism offers plenty of scope for examples of how legislative branches can modify the dynamics of transition in ways that rarely attract the close attention of transition scholars. These modifications do however attract the attention of transition advisors in government who appreciate the potential in bicameral legislatures for passive obstacles to turn into active obstruction inimical to the interests of incoming political executives (Uhr, 2006). We accept that bicameral legislatures vary greatly (Patterson and Mughan, 1999), but our purpose is not so much to delve into those differences but instead to use bicameral cases to illustrate many of the neglected roles of legislative branches in the political dynamics of transition. The chapter covers three bicameral settings: the United States, Canada and Australia. Each case illustrates aspects of what we term ‘contested transitions’ arising from competition between holders of executive and legislative power (Shugart, 2006).

Contested transitions Our aim is to sketch certain properties of bicameral legislatures that help explain the persistence of ‘contested transitions’. The case material we provide describes the institutional environment in which transitions occur. In the limited space available, we concentrate more on the properties of the three institutional settings than on detailed anatomies of specific transitions. Our focus is on the institutional architecture which allows holders of legislative power to contest an incoming political executive’s transition to government. Bicameralism provides an important test-case of the capacity of newly elected governments to ‘take power’ and govern (Tsebelis and Money, 1997). About three-fifths of contemporary national governments are unicameral, so that in those unicameral political systems that have regular democratic elections we can assume that newly elected governments have only one parliamentary chamber or legislative assembly where the new governing party or coalition has to demonstrate its policy and legislative authority. The three examples we have chosen differ in quite significant respects. This allows us to observe variations in the ways that contemporary democracies manage the important business of government transition. All three

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nations are federal systems, which is the common explanation for their shared bicameralism and their ‘Senates’. We emphasize that in each nation the so-called federal house carries out a range of federal and non-federal functions. The US Senate in some important senses modelled the choice for Senates in the Canadian and Australian federations (Uhr, 1998; Smith, 2003). All three systems evolved in nationally distinctive ways from the British system of their colonial rulers, with a sequence of half-centuries separating the constitutional formation of the US (1787), then the Canadian (1865), then finally the Australian federal system (1901). The three federations have very different national legislative assemblies. The US is distinctive as a presidential system, with separate elections for executive and legislative branches (Quirk and Binder, 2005). Canada and Australia are parliamentary systems, with the important difference that the Canadian Senate is an unelected chamber while the Australian Senate is elected (by state-level proportional representation). This rich variation is relevant to our analysis, because our aim is not to devise a simplistic model of transition that can cover as many cases as possible but to supplement and enrich the existing literature on transitions with a more complete picture of the comparative complexities of government transitions. Not all democratic transitions are alike, and that not even all bicameral transitions are alike. Many newly elected democratic governments have to learn to share power with non-government political parties, and to learn that the initial post-election transition to power can remain structurally and therefore operationally incomplete in many otherwise effective democratic systems. These contested (or negotiated or delayed or bifurcated or incomplete) transitions are not deviations from some supposed democratic norm, which might be assumed from the neglect of legislative bicameralism in the transitions literature. Rather, the three instances we highlight suggest that democratic transitions have more legitimate variations than conventionally assumed. We begin with the United States, not because it is ‘the model’ here but because it is the earliest of our three cases to attempt to institute relationships between executive government and a federal component of the legislative assembly. We then turn to the case of Canada which is a pioneer in blending a federal legislature and a parliamentary system. Part of that blend is an understandable reluctance to grant too much legitimacy to a Senate precisely because of the potential for such a second chamber to undermine the hard-won rights of ‘responsible governments’ to respect the norms of parliamentary confidence constitutionally devised in Canada. Finally, we turn to the Australian case which interestingly combines elements of both US and Canadian approaches, with staggered Senate elections creating potential for newly elected governments to face hostile Senates denying the government ‘transit rights’ widely expected in democratic transitions.

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The United States: Keeping the wolves at bay Every US presidential candidate makes promises he must know he cannot keep. Any candidate who spoke about the many things that are beyond the control of any president would be castigated by his opponent for showing a deplorable lack of leadership. Even before a newly elected president is inaugurated, he already has to be asking himself how he possibly can satisfy the high expectations that he very deliberately set out to create. Even if he should have been convinced by his own rhetoric, he soon realizes that the nation’s problems are more numerous, severe, and complicated than he had imagined, and that his constitutional power and political influence for dealing with them are not as great as he had hoped. But if this did not make life difficult enough for a new president, he is immediately confronted by three additional problems that are likely to retard his ability to hit the ground running and achieve even his most cherished legislative goals. Two of these problems involve the US Senate, as may the third. Nominations and confirmations There is no shadow cabinet in the United States. One of a president’s first and most important challenges is assembling his team of department and agency heads and their subordinates. A president selects not only the secretary (i.e. minister) of a cabinet department; he also nominates a far larger number of under secretaries, assistant secretaries, deputy assistant secretaries, and so on. In American public administration, there is no such civil service position as permanent or department secretary; the top layers of national departments and agencies tend to be manned by presidential appointees. By one estimate, a president can make more than 2000 executive branch as well as judicial appointments, each of which requires confirmation (approval) by a majority vote of the Senate (Tong, 2008). But the road from nominations to appointments is often long and arduous, precisely because of the need for Senate confirmation. There are various reasons that might explain why the Senate tends to delay final action on many nominations (Quirk and Binder, 2005: 407–31). One is the allconsuming intensity of presidential campaigns which leave little time, energy, and attention for such mundane post-election matters as personnel decisions. A second is the amount of information that prospective nominees are expected to compile and hand over to presidential assistants and advisors, not only to evaluate a person’s credentials but also to look for potential landmines that could de-rail a nomination in the Senate and embarrass the president. A third is the additional paperwork that Senate committees demand of nominees, to assure Senators that nothing determinative is being hidden from them and to protect them from confirming a nominee about whom embarrassing or damaging information then emerges. A fourth is the delicate presidential task of allocating rewards

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among his personal supporters and fellow partisans. And still one more is the recent emphasis on demographic diversity in appointments, making one selection dependent on others and making it more difficult to find people who have both the professional credentials and the personal characteristics desired for certain positions, and the willingness to endure the nomination and confirmation process. There is a logic and justification for each of the reasons why it has come to take so long to staff a new presidency. Yet when they all are put together, their collective effect is to severely impede a new presidential administration. Not even the President of the United States gets to pick his own team at will – he has a legislative veto player – the Senate – to persuade, cajole and appease in a complicated ‘politics of appointments’ (Lewis, 2008). Divided government Although presidential candidates often are happy to leave voters with the impression that electing that candidate is all that is needed to reform Washington and solve the nation’s problems, occasionally a candidate will throw an arm, literally or figuratively, around the shoulder of a congressional candidate and intone how important it is to send that prospective Representative or Senator to Washington to work hand in hand with the presumptive new president. This is about as close as most presidential candidates like to come to admitting that there are severe limits on what they can hope to accomplish without congressional support. Yet one of the more striking characteristics of US national politics in recent decades has been the frequency of divided government, with there being a president of one party and one or both houses of Congress with majorities from the other party (Mayhew, 2005). Between 1901 and the end of World War II, there were only two two-year periods of such divided government. Since then, divided government has become common. During the 1950s, President Eisenhower spent six of his 12 years in the White House facing Democratic Congresses, and since the presidential and congressional elections of 1968, presidents have confronted a majority of the other party in one or both houses of Congress in 30 of the 42 years. Some respected scholars have contended that divided government is not inconsistent with legislative accomplishment and productivity (Mayhew, 2005). Yet ask any president or presidential candidate whether he prefers to face a Congress with majorities of his own party, and you may be sure that he will agree. By no means does unified government eliminate the need for extended negotiation and hard bargaining between the president and Congress over the president’s legislative proposals. Nor does unified government even assure that presidential legislation eventually will be enacted at all, no matter how much it may be changed during the course of the legislative process. President Clinton was first elected in 1992, for example, with Democratic majorities in both the House and Senate. Yet the

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signature legislative initiative of his first two years in the White House, his health care reform initiative, failed to pass. Divided government only makes a difficult process even more difficult, and presidents will have to tread the path of reform very carefully and smartly (as freshman president Barack Obama’s ultimately more successful pursuit of health care reform in 2009–10 once again demonstrated). Changes in American party politics have made the dangers and costs of divided government to presidents greater than they had been during much of the 20th century (Mayhew, 2005: 175–99). The Democratic party enjoyed a string of majorities in the House of Representatives from 1931 to 1995 that was broken only twice, in 1947–48 and 1953–54. Yet through almost all of this period, Democratic presidents did not enjoy the predictable support of the House of Representatives, as a prime minister expects the dependable support of his parliamentary majority. Internal divisions within the Democratic party made possible the emergence of a ‘conservative coalition’ of Republican and southern Democratic Representatives that often could thwart the legislative ambitions of presidents from Franklin Roosevelt to Jimmy Carter. Divided government was a more serious impediment to Democratic presidents, and a less serious one to Republican presidents, than it has since become. The American political landscape has changed. In congressional elections, the southern states now vote much more Republican than Democratic; on the other hand, liberal Republicans, especially from the north-eastern states, have almost entirely disappeared from congressional ranks. Each congressional party has become more homogenous and the two parties in Congress have become more polarized. More votes now are decided largely along party lines. The voting cohesion of congressional parties still does not compare with the party discipline that is typical of parliamentary parties, but the difference has narrowed significantly. As a result, it has become harder for a president to identify prospective supporters for his legislative priorities from among the members ‘across the aisle’. It may be easier for presidents to hold together members of their own party in Congress in support of their legislation, but that is not of very much comfort when their party is in the minority in one or both houses. This is not to suggest that divided government precludes legislative achievement, but it certainly must complicate the life of a new president. The legislative process in Washington always involves negotiation and compromise. Only in cases of presidents elected in true partisan landslides – Franklin Roosevelt in 1933 and Lyndon Johnson in 1965 come to mind – can a president even hope to see his prized bills enacted quickly and without significant change. In his first years in office, President Reagan was able to transform his personal popularity into legislative victories, notwithstanding Democratic majorities in the House of Representatives throughout his presidency, but even he had to become skilled at asking for a lot, accepting what he could get, and then declaring victory. The lesson to be learned from Reagan’s experience

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is that a president who can provoke fear in members of Congress from the other party – fear that he is so popular among their constituents that they put their own re-election at risk if they oppose his legislative program – can minimize the additional challenges that divided government pose for any new president. Few presidents, however, are inaugurated with this advantage in hand, and even fewer are able to retain it for very long. Controlling the Senate? Finally, any newly elected president had better understand that there is all the difference in the world between having a majority in the Senate and having control of the Senate. Reporters in Washington often tell their audience that it will require 60 votes for the Senate to pass a certain bill, even though 51 constitutes a majority of the 100-person Senate. This claim is both false and true. It is false because, in fact, it requires only a bare majority of 51 for the Senate to pass any bill. However, it also is true because it frequently requires a vote of 60 Senators to enable the body to reach the point of being able to vote on passing a bill by 51 votes. We tend to associate representative government with majority rule, but the majority does not necessarily rule in the United States Senate. Perhaps the body’s most distinguishing feature is the absence in its standing orders of effective limits on the length of individual speeches or collective debates. Except when the Senate has reached a unanimous agreement to the contrary, a Senator who has begun to speak may continue to speak for as long as he or she is able. The record remains a 1957 speech against a civil rights bill that lasted for 24 hours and 18 minutes. Just as important, there is no motion allowed in the Senate to end the debate on a bill, amendment, or motion without thereby also killing it. The result is the filibuster, for which the Senate is justly famous or infamous. Ever since 1917, the Senate has had a rule by which it can force an eventual end to a filibuster by agreeing to a cloture motion, but only by an extraordinary majority – that is, some majority larger than a simple majority of 51. In 1975, the Senate adjusted its rules to permit cloture to be invoked by a vote of three-fifths of all Senators – that is, at least 60 of the 100 Senators. And at no time from 1980 until 2009 did either party hold three-fifths of the seats in the Senate. The effect is that a large minority of at least 41 Senators, typically from the minority party, normally can debate a bill for as long as they wish and the majority is procedurally powerless to stop them. When this happens, the majority ultimately has only three options: it can attempt to wait out the bill’s opponents, it can negotiate with them in the hope of making changes in the bill that will convince the filibustering Senators to desist, or it can surrender and pull the bill from further consideration. A unified and determined minority party in the Senate may not be able to secure passage

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of its own favoured legislation, but it usually can block or, at a minimum, seriously delay passage of the majority party’s favourite bills. This has been a reality in the Senate almost from its inception, and one that every newly elected president understands. Notwithstanding the procedural power that filibusters give, they were infrequent for most of the 20th century, as were motions to stop them. Not so today. There are no satisfactory objective criteria to identify filibusters, but we can note that during the seven decades from 1919 to 1978, a total of 380 cloture motions were filed; compare this with the 739 motions filed during the next two decades alone. Correspondingly, twice as many of these motions went to a vote during 1989–2008 as during the previous seven decades combined, and two and a half times as many were approved. Data on cloture motions are an imperfect measure, at best, of the number of Senate filibusters. Cloture on a bill may be moved when there is no filibuster or before one begins, and numerous cloture motions may be moved in connection with the same bill and the filibuster on it. There even have been cases in which cloture has been moved for reasons unrelated to the prospect or fact of ‘an extended educational debate’. That said, there can be no doubt that the Senate has changed in recent years, and the frequency of filibusters probably has been the most important manifestation of it. The Senate today is a much more partisan and considerably less collegial place than it was in the 1950s, when it was described as a ‘gentlemen’s club’ or as the ‘world’s most exclusive club’ (White, 1957). As legislating in the Senate became a much more contested process, bipartisan compromise and cooperation grew more difficult to achieve, as did the legislative challenges to any president, even one whose party enjoyed a Senate majority but not a majority large enough to be ‘filibuster-proof’. In his seminal study of presidential power, Neustadt (1991: 10) wrote: In the early summer of 1952, before the heat of the campaign, President Truman used to contemplate the problems of the general-becomePresident should Eisenhower win the forthcoming election. ‘He’ll sit here,’ Truman would remark (tapping his desk for emphasis) ‘and he’ll say, “Do this! Do that!” And nothing will happen. Poor Ike—it won’t be a bit like the Army. He’ll find it very frustrating’. Truman surely exaggerated a bit. Some things a president can accomplish by command. For most things, though, he needs the efforts of his appointees within the executive branch and the support of both houses of Congress, and neither comes as easy as any president would like.

Canada: Co-opting and constraining the non-elected The Canadian Senate embodies a number of conflicting visions (Smith, 2003). Like the British House of Lords of earlier days, it was certainly

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intended to protect economic elites. In order to fulfil the role of a house of territorial representation based on the equality of communities rather than of individuals, they decided that representation in the Senate would be based on the equality not of provinces (as in the US Senate) but of three (now four) divisions. The idea of a house of patronage was certainly not far from the minds of constitution-makers of 1867, who were well aware that the Crown, even then, meant the government of the day (Mackay, 1963). Two developments that had not been foreseen prior to 1867 soon modified the practical operation of the Senate. First, in contrast with the quick Italianlike succession of cabinets that had been the hallmark of pre-Confederation settings, the Canadian executive soon evolved into one of the most stable among British inspired polities. Conservatives dominated the federal scene uninterruptedly from 1878 to 1896. As for Liberals, their own periods in office (1896–1911, 1921–30, 1935–57, 1963–79, 1980–84, and 1993–2004) were durable enough to earn them the nickname of Canada’s ‘natural governing party’. As almost all Senate appointments systematically went to friends of the incumbent party, and until 1965 were for life, every new administration reaching office after a long stay on the opposition benches was bound to be faced with an upper house where the opposition was dominant. The other development that shook the original blueprint was the progress of democratic ideas. In 1867, there was nothing obscene in granting to an unelected legislative body powers that were equal to those of the elected house. Almost all European polities in these days followed the same model. Yet, by mere effluxion of time, it became unacceptable to most that the will of the people be obstructed by unelected legislators, and the Senate found it increasingly difficult to make an effective use of its immense legislative powers. Hence the conundrum Canadians have had to live with up to now. In theory, the Senate is all-powerful, in practice it is almost harmless. The Senate soon joined the Crown in the category of ‘dignified’ rather than ‘effective’ bodies. The only way for senators to escape irrelevance was to be seen doing good things: making valuable studies and rectifying the most blatant mistakes committed by the government. The Senate became effectively a house of review rather than the powerful body that the Constitution suggested (Jackson and Jackson, 2010: 161–6). In polities where the constitution can be changed more easily, this problem might have been solved either by making the Senate elective, and more able to use its powers effectively, or by reducing its formal powers to a more modest and manageable size so that they could be used without creating an uproar. Unfortunately, as is well known, changing the Canadian constitution has become a nightmare (Jackson and Jackson, 2010: 58-71). For over half a century, Canadians were unable to agree on a formula for amending their own constitution, and the settlement reached in 1982 arguably created in this area more problems than it solved. Two attempts at constitutional reform since then, in 1987 (the Meech Lake Accord) and in 1992

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(the Charlottetown Accord), ended in unmitigated disaster, and constitutional negotiations are now commonly equated in Canada with an appointment with a dentist. Wholesale constitutional changes often occur when a polity suffers a major trauma, like military defeat or revolution. For better or for worse (on balance: fortunately), Canadians have up to now been spared both. The context of senatorial transitions Transitions from one government to the other so far have taken place in a context of facing a Senate which is usually utterly dominated by their opponents. Upon taking office in 2006, the new Conservative government could count on only 23 reliable supporters in the Senate. Liberals had 66 seats, three seats were held by Progressive Conservatives (PC) who were cool towards the fusion with the Canadian Alliance that had produced the new Conservative party. Six seats were held by others, and there were five vacancies. In 1993, Jean Chrétien had faced a Progressive Conservative majority in the Senate. Brian Mulroney’s challenge in 1984 was an even taller order, as Liberals held 73 seats in the Senate. In 1957, John Diefenbaker had to compose with a Senate where Liberals had 78 seats against 18 for the PCs and four others. Among contemporary Prime ministers, Lester Pearson in 1963, and Trudeau in 1980, are the only ones who were spared this problem, as Diefenbaker’s and Joe Clark’s respective tenures had been too short to overcome the strongly entrenched Liberal Senate majority. Such transitions are bound to be trying. The outcome will depend on two major dimensions. How will the Senate react to the new government? And how will the prime minister deal with the Senate? Options for senators At the beginning of a political transition, Canadian senators face a dilemma. They are widely perceived as a remnant of the rulers Canadians just threw out. Further, notwithstanding the personal worth of many of them, they are commonly dismissed as the lazy and illegitimate recipients of political privilege. Whether fair or not, the derisive connotations popularly associated with senators have arguably made the Canadian Senate one of the most discredited legislative bodies in the democratic world. Should Canadians ever be in the position of restructuring their constitution from tabula rasa, there is little doubt the Senate as presently constituted would go (Smith, 2003: 149–75; Russell, 2008: 114–15). All these public perceptions strongly suggest senators had better behave very carefully when facing a new government, for fear that the public wrath generated by their obstruction might eventually lead either to abolition or reform. Senators should work at the margins or do nothing at all that would hamper the new government’s agenda, which is after all what they usually do when their own party is in power. Such an attitude is probably the instinctive choice of many senators, who are happy with enjoying their

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privileges and are afraid to rock the boat by taking themselves, and their powers, too seriously. But senators are also politicians, and among them can be found some figures who do not believe their own best days have passed yet. They may argue for a more aggressive stance. This is especially the case when the new government starts challenging established policies and making enemies. Government bills may be rejected or amended in a way that is not acceptable for the government. Borrowing authority bills may be delayed or rejected. The study of controversial legislative measures may also be delayed. Witnesses the government would prefer not to be heard may be invited to appear before Senate committees. Inquiries on issues that will embarrass the government can be launched (Russell, 2008: 112–20). Senatorial transitions are shaped to a great extent by the attitude of senators, and should they opt for the path of war, they have many weapons at their disposal. For anyone looking for an opposition-dominated Senate freely using its prerogatives in order to make life difficult for a new government, a prime candidate is the Liberal-dominated Senate in 1984–1990. From September 1984 to May 1985, the Senate was the only legislative body the Liberals controlled in the country. Prime minister Trudeau had appointed many from his own inner circle of advisors to the upper house prior to leaving office, so that the Senate could act as a bulwark not only for Liberal policies, but for Trudeau’s own brand of Liberalism rather than his successor’s, John Turner. In succession, the Senate delayed in 1985 a borrowing authority bill passed by the House of Commons (with the support of the Liberals). The next year, Bill C-67, the ‘gating’ amendments proposed to the Penitentiary Act, had difficulties in the Senate. In 1987, Bill C-22, the Drug Patent Bill and Bill C-84, the Immigration Bill had the same fate. The next year was momentous, as topics of contention between the two houses included Bill C-60, the Copyright Bill, and Bill C-103, the Atlantic Canada Opportunities Agency Bill. Also in 1988, the Senate rejected the Meech Lake Accord, which had to be passed again by the House of Commons, then went for a showdown by delaying the Free Trade Agreement, leading to an election the Liberals lost. In 1990, they would have rejected the controversial Goods and Services Tax (GST), had they not been swamped through the appointment of eight extra senators. Options for the new government What now about the prime minister and his government? The chief weapon in the hands of the executive is time. Each vacancy that happens following a change of government will be filled by a government appointee, and with years the opposition majority is bound to erode. How much time will be needed will depend of course on the size of the opposition majority, the age of opposition senators and their willingness to stay in office. In earlier days, when appointments were for life, as many as nine years were needed before

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Mackenzie King’s Liberals, after the 1935 election, could overturn the Conservative majority in the Senate and build up such a huge majority that six years in office (1957–1963) were not enough for John Diefenbaker to overcome. Even after mandatory retirement at 75 years of age became the rule, eight years would have been needed for Brian Mulroney in order to get a majority in the Senate, had he not chosen to accelerate the process through swamping. Jean Chrétien had more luck, for three years were enough, but the initial Tory majority was much smaller. Apart from smart moves like persuading an opposition senator to retire earlier than scheduled in order to make way for a new appointee (this was done under Chrétien), the only way to speed up the work of nature lies in the swamping power provided by section 26 of the Constitution Act, 1867. Ironically, earlier constitutional drafts did not include any swamping power. British colonial officials, aware of precedents in Britain and in its empire, persuaded the Fathers of Confederation that a limited swamping power (up to six, then, in a house of 72) was needed. As the provision now reads (Forsey, 1974), either four or eight extra senators (one or two for each division, so that the interdivisional balance will not be shattered) may be appointed by the Queen, acting on the advice of the prime minister. There is a single precedent for this provision to be used, in 1990 by Brian Mulroney. Once this prerogative is used, however, no new appointments for a division may be made until the representation of that division has fallen back below its normal size. Swamping in Canada can only speed up the process of change, and cannot overcome an opposition majority over eight. Meanwhile, prime ministers must bite the bullet and wait. Should the Senate reject a major piece of legislation, they may call an election on the issue and, if successful, hope that the Senate will abide with the convention that the people must have the last word on such issues. This is what Brian Mulroney did, in 1988, successfully, on free trade with the United States, though Liberal senators quickly found other issues for dispute. Another option is constitutional reform. Altering the rules of the game with regards to the Senate is difficult. Section 42 of the Constitution Act, 1982, lists four topics that require the consent of the legislative assemblies of two-thirds (seven) of provinces including more than 50 per cent of the population of all provinces. They are (1) the powers of the Senate; (2) the method of selecting senators; (3) the number of senators by which a province is entitled to be represented in the Senate; and (4) the residence qualification of senators. Provided the government of the day is able to secure the consent of the House of Commons (easy, if you have a majority) and the support of enough provincial governments (not so easy), the Senate is unable to thwart the assault against its composition or prerogatives, for it has in this area a mere suspensive six-month veto that the House can overcome. Other dimensions of Senate reform can be addressed through ordinary legislation, but the latter must be passed by the Senate as well.

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How difficult a modification of the rules of the game can be is illustrated by the unsuccessful attempt by Brian Mulroney to clip the wings of the Senate in 1985 by sponsoring a constitutional amendment that would have curbed the legislative powers of the Senate. The measure was initially supported by all provinces but Quebec, the latter’s objection having to do not with the Senate, but with the fulfilment of its own constitutional agenda. Yet, everything soon fell apart in May 1985, when the 42-year old Tory administration in Ontario lost its majority. It had to give way in July to a Liberal minority government. Without the support of Ontario and Quebec, the consenting provinces included less than half the population of all provinces, and the measure fell by the wayside. This leads us to the ongoing transition, generated by the advent in early 2006 of a new Conservative minority administration headed by Stephen Harper, facing a Liberal-dominated Senate (Jackson and Jackson, 2010: 165–6). The novelty of this transition is the proclaimed goal of the new Prime Minister to fulfil the old Reform party promise of a Triple E (‘elected, equal, effective’) Senate. The priority given to this goal was highlighted by the tabling in 2006 of two legislative measures. The first one (Bill S-4) reduced the term of future senators to eight years, though it did not apply to incumbents. The second one (Bill C-43) provided for the holding, within each province, of a consultation of the voters on who would fill a vacancy in the Senate, with the prime minister remaining free, legally, to appoint any other qualified person he wished. How this attempt to tiptoe around the constitutional obstacles would fare in the courts remains uncertain (Smith, 2009), and there was little support among the provinces for the change. Meanwhile, Harper emphasized how serious he was about Senate reform by initially refraining from filling any vacancy that arose. There were only two derogations to this attitude. In early 2006, Harper appointed to the Senate a Quebec cabinet minister who had no seat in the House, in order to improve this vote-rich province’s representation in his Cabinet. More revealingly, the next year, a Senate vacancy in Alberta was immediately filled by the ‘winner’ of the senatorial consultation held earlier by the provincial government. By the autumn of 2008, when Parliament was dissolved, none of the two measures dealing with Senate reform had been passed by either house. Further, the Senate, whose consent was needed, was understandably cool towards both, while some provinces lamented that the federal government was trying to do indirectly, through legislation, what it could not do directly, i.e. through a constitutional amendment needing provincial consent. Harper was returned in October 2008 with an increased number of seats, but still short of a majority. A provocative financial statement in December resulted in the three opposition parties attempting to defeat the government and to reach office through a Liberal/NDP coalition supported by the Bloc Québécois. The coalition episode ended in failure, but the government had to alter its policies in order to survive. At this point, Harper came to

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realize that he had better fill Senate vacancies with his own supporters as soon as he could, which he did in December 2008, August 2009 and January 2010. At the time of writing (April 2010), party standings in the Senate were 51 Conservatives, 49 Liberals, two Progressive Conservatives, and three crossbenchers. It is now only a matter of time before the government commands a decisive majority in the Senate, which would leave opposition parties in the House of Commons as the chief remaining obstacle to Senate reform. Harper’s strategy has clearly been effective in keeping the Senate on the defensive. Because the government was in a minority position anyway, there was little need to stand up and it was wiser to count on opposition parties in the Commons to keep the Conservative government in check. Even after having filled senatorial vacancies, the government remains committed to reducing the term of senators to eight years, with the proviso that this would apply to all senators appointed after 23 October 2008. The Bill to that effect was reintroduced in May 2009 and again in March 2010.

Australia: Managing a most powerful ‘house of review’ The Australian story is special in its own way. The formation of Australia as a national political entity followed that of Canada by around a half-century which followed that of the United States by a similar period. Australia is thus the most modern of the three polities under examination here (Aroney, 2009). Australia was in a position to learn from the other two federations and historians have traced the many ways that the Australian federation generation drew upon their British heritage of responsible parliamentary government when searching the American and Canadian cases for insights into modernizing the Australian framework of constitutional government (Alexander and Galligan, 1992). The Australian constitutional framework shares with the Canadian system a strong tendency to leave many important matters of political management to convention and the good judgement of elected politicians. Many important operational details relating to elections and the formation of new governments are part of the assumed background of the Australian constitutional system. For instance, the written Constitution has a lot to say about the Governor-General’s formal exercise of the executive power, but little if anything about the office of head of government, or of political parties, or of the timing of elections other than to specify the outer limit of the three year term of the House of Representatives and the six year term of the Senate. Remarkably, the written Constitution of 1901 has required little textual amendment in the century since Federation, suggesting that Australian political elites have managed passably well despite the limited utility of the written text as a guide to the operational realities of Australian parliamentary government.

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The constitutional framework identifies the three powers of government: the legislative and executive powers residing in the elected parliament and the judicial power residing in the appointed judiciary (Aroney, 2009: 272–98). The Constitution identifies the Governor-General as the formal holder of executive power but with sufficient clarity that everyone has understood that in almost all circumstances executive power would be exercised by the Governor-General acting on the advice of an elected ministry. This formal arrangement is important to transitions for several reasons. First, the constitutional formalities have allowed the Governor-General to manage transitions in and out of government in the absence of general elections. This happened frequently in the early years after Federation during circumstances of party fluidity with instances of minor party government. It was also significant during the early years of World War II when the Curtin ALP government came to power after the ruling conservative coalition lost its majority because of a small number of party defectors. And it was at its most significant – and most controversial – in 1975 when the Whitlam ALP government was sacked by Governor-General Kerr following a protracted standoff in the Senate. Kerr commissioned the opposition leader as prime minister and head of a caretaker government pending an election of both houses, which was subsequently won by the caretaker Fraser government with a commanding majority (Bach, 2003: 83–119). These instances illustrate the capacity to allow the authorized – constitutionally empowered, yet neutral (Elzinga, 2009) – head-of-state to make important transitions in the office of head of government based on independent judgement about which party or parties enjoy parliamentary confidence. In normal circumstances, transitions between parties holding government are determined solely by the outcome of general elections. Again, constitutional provisions regulate core aspects of this process: Australian electoral rules and practice are subject to evolving electoral law through which Parliament has filled out the details consistent with the bare but important bones of the constitutional provisions. The most significant issue relates to bicameralism. Although the Constitution does not use such language, the lower House of Representatives has emerged as ‘the house of government’ and the Senate has emerged as ‘the house of review’ (Bach, 2003: 238–73). Both houses have virtually equivalent legislative power: the Senate can reject even those few financial bills which it may not amend. The smaller Senate has a six year rather than a three year term like the House of Representatives, so that governments are formed on the basis of party representation in the lower house. Based on the House of Representatives system of preferential voting in single-member seats, the outcome of general elections has been remarkably clear for almost all the time since the consolidation of the two-party contest over government office. Although there have been a number of instances when the ALP has ‘lost the election’

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even though its has won a greater share of the two-party preferred votes than its opponents, the important issue is that all parties acknowledge that electoral victory goes to the party winning the greatest number of House of Representatives seats. The distinctive Australian complication is the Senate. Since the 1949 adoption of a system of proportional representation (PR) for Senate elections, governments have not been able to guarantee that their success in winning control of a majority of lower house seats will be matched by a majority of Senate seats (Uhr, 1998: 108–15). One explanation is that voters in significant numbers split their votes, deliberately complicating the transition to government process by simultaneously casting votes for strong party government in the House of Representatives and for minor parties as a form of house of review insurance in the Senate. Australia thus stands out as an interesting example of a parliamentary system where incoming governments can find themselves facing a hostile or even an obstructionist parliamentary majority in the Senate, which has powers virtually equal to those of the House of Representatives. This situation gives Australia an unusual parliamentary version of ‘divided government’ where the house of government is held in check by a parliamentary house of review controlled by non-government interests: sometimes the interests of the official Opposition party but more often a loose coalition of nongovernment interests where the balance of power between the parties of government and the official opposition is held by minor parties and/or independents. A second explanation for the discrepancy between control of the two houses is constitutional. Elections for the House of Representatives occur every three years or earlier if so determined by the head of government. The Senate however has fixed terms, with half the senators facing election every three years (Aroney, 2009: 215–46). Normally, a general election is accompanied by elections for half the Senate: but the terms of senators are fixed under the Constitution, so that even newly elected senators may not take up their Senate office until the expiry of the term of the senators they are replacing. The only exceptions are the four Territory senators established in 1975 whose terms match those of the lower house. Thus, the earlier that an election is held for the House of Representatives, the longer the waiting period for newly elected senators to replace those defeated at the election. The Constitution anticipates the transition process required by all fixedterm offices, especially those in a parliamentary house that has claims to be in continuous existence on the basis of its rolling or staggered terms. In any system of fixed-term offices, there is a requirement that the selection of incoming senators take place well before the expiry of the terms of those whose offices are being contested. Thus section 13 of the Constitution stipulates that Senate elections may be held at any time within one year of the

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expiry of the relevant Senate terms: which authorizes a transition period of up to 12 months for newly elected senators. The only exception, which we will come to shortly, is in the case of a double-dissolution election for all seats of both houses when the beginning of the new term for senators coincides with that of the House of Representatives (Bach, 2003: 25–43). Incoming Australian governments thus can find themselves facing two transition hurdles: first, the lingering presence of Senate representatives of the former governing party whose terms have yet to expire and whose constitutional rights block the power of incoming governments to appoint any of their newly elected senators to ministerial posts; and second, the probable certainty that even when the new senators take up office, the incoming governing party will not have a Senate majority. The timing of House of Representatives elections is at the discretion of the prime minister. Only one House has gone its full term (1907–1910), so that we can see the Australian practice is for prime ministers to opt for early elections, knowing that they have to do their best to articulate the cycles of the two houses. The 2007 transition forms an apt illustration. The Howard government called the 24 November election on 14 October, dissolving Parliament which did not resume until after the formation of the new Rudd government in February 2008. The ALP under Kevin Rudd won government by increasing its number of lower house seats from 60 to 83, compared to the 65 retained by the outgoing Liberal coalition. At the concurrent half-Senate elections, the ALP won 18 seats, the same number as the outgoing coalition. Given the fixed-nature of Senate terms, the Rudd government had to work with ‘the old Senate’ in the five months between the February resumption of Parliament and the inauguration of ‘the new senators’ on 1 July 2008. Of particular significance was the balance of party numbers in ‘the old Senate’, where the former coalition parties held a majority as a result of an unprecedented strong Senate showing at the previous 2004 election. The Howard government enjoyed a bare majority of one in the Senate: the first time any government had a Senate majority since 1980. That government majority of one reverted into an opposition majority of one after the Howard government lost office in November 2007, thereby frustrating the ease of the Rudd transition to power. To use the traditional language so well-known by scholars of the Labor party: the party of progressive reform had, once again, won political office without effectively winning parliamentary power. The Rudd government had only 28 senators during this transition period, but this rose to 32 with the changeover on 1 July 2008, which also reduced the opposition numbers from that bare majority of one to 37, which took away the official opposition’s clout to stall Senate business, and handed the balance of power back to where it typically resides: in the hands of a loose coalition of minor parties and independents.

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How unusual was the 2007 transition? The knowledge that the Howard government won its rare Senate majority at the 2004 election tells us that the 2007 transition was bound to be unusual. It marks the outer limits of the transition situation. Most incoming governments face less stressful situations with the Senate. More typical are the 1998, 2001 and 2004 elections which, although not leading to any change of government, illustrate the common timetable with elections in either October or November, resulting in a transition of at least six months before senators-elect took up office. The 1996 election, which did see a change of government from the Keating Labor government to the beginnings of the long run of Howard governments, was held in March and illustrates the alternative practice of earlyyear elections with a much shorter transition period for senators-elect. This March election timing was the practice in 1990, 1993 and indeed 1983 when the Hawke Labor period began. Three features sum up the Australian situation. First, incoming governments can find themselves unable to deliver key policy promises, such as new or changed legislation, because of the lingering power of opposing parties in the Senate. In many circumstances, this adversity is only temporary and thus stands out as an important example of transition processes through which incoming governments frequently have to pass. But pass they do, confident that the old order also passes away. A prominent example of this policy delay was the frustration evident in the new Rudd government when engaged in managing public expectations that it would speedily reform the Howard government’s workplace relations legislation. Not surprisingly, the Senate majority held by the former governing LiberalNational coalition threatened to use its power to hold the government at bay. Only with the change of Opposition leader from Nelson to Turnbull (and later to Abbott) did the coalition parties admit that the Rudd government probably had earned its mandate to reverse that particular policy framework. Second, incoming governments can find themselves temporarily denied access to some of their own political talent. The formation of the new government includes the composition of a new ministry and a new prime minister can face temporary limitations based on the delayed installation in office of senators-elect. A test of the importance of this situation would be the extent to which new governments modified their ministerial makeup by the time of the official installation of newly elected senators. This is a significant issue given that around one-third of the Australian ministry tends to be drawn from the Senate, regardless of which party is governing. The third implication is that the frequency of such Senate-related transitions accelerates the development of the Senate from a non-government house to an anti-government house. Perhaps a better description is that the Senate is strengthened as ‘a house of opposition’ where the special contribution senators attempt to make is in terms of holding governments to

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account (Uhr, 1998: 190–208). The emergence of the Senate from a legislative house of review to a house of policy and administrative accountability is closely related to the transitional dynamics where issues of review and accountability first get tested.

Conclusion: Dispersed power spells transition troubles It is not so surprising that the scholarly literature on democratic transitions has so little to say about bicameralism, even in federal political systems. Bicameralism is notoriously difficult to treat in comparative terms, with each bicameral system appearing unique in its own terms (Uhr, 2006). But it is surprising that so little is said about contested transitions arising from competition over control of legislative power, which occurs quite frequently and with greatest visibility in federal systems. We have attempted to supplement discussion of government transitions by drawing on evidence from bicameralism to illustrate the wider relevance of ‘contested transitions’. Bicameralism is simply the means we have selected to clarify the end, which is the challenge incoming political executives face from competition over legislative power. Part of our aim has been to widen the focus so that transition analysts can take in a greater range of institutional variables when assessing transition processes. Our general view is that attempts to map when power changes hands depends on careful charting of how power changes hands. Our specific view is that the how dimension is much broader than simply the assembly of executive talent featured in many conventional accounts of democratic transitions. Our study suggests that three facets of the contest over legislative power should feature prominently in future studies of transitions. First, federalism as a background framework for the formation of governments and for the ‘vertical’ distribution of executive and legislative powers. Second, bicameralism as a derivative device arising initially from federalism but capable of developing its own institutional logic with power to modify transition plans of executive governments, thereby illustrating a ‘horizontal’ separation of legislative powers. And third, the raw power of partisan politics in such institutional settings to pose lingering, possibly persistent, problems for incoming political executives. Our analysis raises even larger questions about democratic governance. What we describe here as problems for incoming governments are more likely to be lasting than short-lived. In the United States, even after all the president’s executive-office nominees have been confirmed, he may well lack a majority in one or both houses of Congress for part or all of his term in office. The danger of procedural filibusters will remain ever present, barring some revolutionary change in the Senate. In Canada, the stability of governments has meant that when there is a change in party control of government, the new government is likely to find its party in the minority

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in the Senate. While it is true that it may be able to reverse that situation eventually by making new Senate appointments of its own party members, that process may take so long that it offers little comfort to the government of the day. In Australia, the recent historical record indicates that any government, whether newly elected or re-elected, should expect to confront a Senate with a non-government majority, even after the prolonged delay before newly elected Senators actually take their seats.

Bibliography Alexander, M. and Galligan, B. (eds) (1992) Comparative Political Studies: Australia and Canada (Melbourne: Pitman Publishing). Aroney, N. (2009) The Constitution of a Federal Commonwealth: The Making and Meaning of the Australian Constitution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Bach, S. (2003) Platypus and Parliament: The Australian Senate in Theory and Practice (Canberra: Department of the Senate). Elzinga, D. J. (2009) ‘Monarchy, political leadership and democracy: On the importance of neutral institutions’, in J. Kane, H. Patapan and P. ’t Hart (eds) Dispersed Democratic Leadership: Origins, Dynamics and Implications (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 119–40. Forsey, E. A. (1974) ‘Appointment of extra senators under section 26 of the British North America Act’, in E. A. Forsey (ed.) Freedom and Order: Collected Essays (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart), pp. 50–60. Galligan, B. (2006) ‘Comparative federalism’, in R. Rhodes, S. Binder and B. Rockman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Political Institutions (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 261–80. Jackson, R. J. and Jackson, D. (2010) Canadian Government in Transition, 10th edn (Toronto: Pearson Canada). Kane, J., Patapan, H. and ’t Hart, P. (eds) (2009) Dispersed Democratic Leadership: Origins, Dynamics and Implications (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Lewis, D. E. (2008) The Politics of Presidential Appointments (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Mackay, R. A. (1963) The Unreformed Senate of Canada, rev. edn (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart). Mayhew, D. R. (2005) Divided We Govern: Party Control, Lawmaking, and Investigations, 1946–2002, 2nd edn (New Haven: Yale University Press). Neustadt, R. E. (1991) Presidential Power and the Modern Presidents (New York: Free Press). Patterson, S. and Mughan, A. (eds) (1999) Senates: Bicameralism in the Contemporary World (Ohio: Ohio State University Press). Quirk, P. and Binder, S. (eds) (2005) The Legislative Branch (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Russell, P. H. (2008) Two Cheers for Minority Government: The Evolution of Canadian Parliamentary Democracy (Toronto: Emond Montgomery Publications). Shugart, M. (2006) ‘Comparative executive-legislative relations’, in R. Rhodes, S. Binder and B. Rockman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Political Institutions (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 344–65. Smith, D. E. (2003) The Canadian Senate in Bicameral Perspective (Toronto: University of Toronto Press).

John Uhr, Stanley Bach and Louis Massicotte 93 Smith, J. (ed.) (2009) The Democratic Dilemma: Reforming the Canadian Senate (Montreal and Kingston: Queen’s University Kingston, Institute of Intergovernmental Relations). Tong, L. (2008) The Senate Confirmation Process: A Brief Overview. CRS Report for Congress No. RS20986 (Washington D.C.: Congressional Research Service of the U.S. Library of Congress). Tsebelis, G. and Money, J. (1997) Bicameralism (New York: Cambridge University Press). Uhr, J. (1998) Deliberative Democracy in Australia: The Changing Place of Parliament (Melbourne: Cambridge University Press). Uhr, J. (2006) ‘Bicameralism’, in R. Rhodes, S. Binder and B. Rockman (eds) The Oxford Handbook of Political Institutions (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 474–94. White, W. S. (1957) Citadel: The Story of the U.S. Senate (New York: Harper & Brothers).

6 Westminster Norms and Caretaker Conventions: Australian and New Zealand Transition Debates Marian Simms

Caretaker periods and the management of transitions While research on transitions in Westminster systems is generally agreed to be underdeveloped, interest has been sparked over the past few years with academics and practitioners discussing caretaker conventions, especially in Australia and New Zealand. The idea of a caretaker period is central to the idea of responsible government that is a core Westminster concept. Responsible government means that the executive is comprised of Members of Parliament (MPs) and that the executive requires the confidence of the Parliament. Consequently when the Parliament has been dissolved for an election the executive lacks the capacity to make new laws and the legitimacy to make executive decisions. A neutral public service that continues with routine government business during such periods is another hallmark of Westminster. The simplicity of the model, its emphasis on efficient governance, and the lack of detailed prescriptions, meant that it was effective as a means of governance for a wide range of countries during Britain’s colonial period. This chapter focuses on the range of interpretations given to the caretaker period. Terminology is important in these discussions. For some, the term caretaker ‘convention’ is not helpful, or indeed lacks agreed content; and their perspectives will be outlined below. The term transitions is particularly useful as it avoids the common pitfall of assuming that there is a set of Westminster norms or rules which if ascertained and correctly implemented will improve the quality of democracy. Transitions allow comparative work: for example, studies of the United States presidency indicate both the changing norms over the ‘midnight’ decisions, and the accompanying media debate. In particular the type of transition discussed in this chapter is that of the election period; hence it encompasses ‘transitioning out’ as well as ‘transitioning in’. It goes without saying that the proper management of transition is a hallmark of democracy. 94

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However, the recent country-specific debates have taken different forms and have been generated not only by different issues but by distinct types of issues. Australia and New Zealand are particularly interesting cases because they are similar in some respects (for example as ‘settler colonies’ in Oceania) and have an extensive history of policy learning, policy transfer and adaptation. In New Zealand, debate has centred on the actions of government after elections, whereas in Australia the preoccupation has been with the behaviour of government prior to elections. While it is tempting to explain the New Zealand approach as a reflection of the relatively new Mixed Member Proportional (MMP) electoral system, this paper argues that causes are deeper and with longer historical roots. The introduction of new electoral systems, such as MMP in New Zealand, or fixed-term parliaments, such as in New South Wales and the Australian Capital Territory, may change the approach to transition, usually resulting in greater codification. The Australian interest with the pre-election period is particularly intriguing. While a lack of focus on post-election matters could simply be explained by the election system delivering clear winners, the electoral system does not explain the discussion over the pre-election period. This chapter explores the range of factors involved in shaping the discourse around the transition question in both countries and suggests that a mixture of institutional and cultural issues has shaped the debate: electoral systems have not been the sole or determining factor. The interest in the New Zealand post-election period initially emerged over the controversy surrounding an outgoing National Party Government’s refusal to take urgent financial advice from the incoming Labour Party Government in 1984. Discussions about the political and constitutional ramifications of the protracted process of forming a Government after the first MMP election of 1996 (see Boston et al., 1998) drew explicitly upon the lessons from the 1984 experience. Whereas in the Australian case, the lack of a history of what might be termed ‘hand over’ or transition politics has led to considerable discussion over the election campaign period. The furore over the midterm dismissal of Labor Prime Minister Whitlam by the Governor-General in November 1975 may best be seen as the exception that proves the rule. The committing of troops overseas by the Howard Coalition Government during the election campaign of 2001, which sparked widespread comment and further reappraisal, is a case in point (see Warhurst, 2002; Malone, 2007; Tiernan, 2008). Malone (2007) notes that in general the debate over caretaker conventions would be improved by more practical case studies of caretaker issues, which this chapter provides.

Westminster conventions: Rules of executive convenience? Interestingly the New Zealand model for dealing with uncertainty in the postelection period is being promoted for adoption in the United Kingdom (UK)

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by the Justice Committee of the House of Commons, as the current UK convention deals only with the election period. Amongst the crucial differences that have emerged within the Westminster ‘family’ of nations (Rhodes, 2005), cabinet government remains the core similarity (Weller and Keating, 2000) and consequently it is arguable that transitions are central to any discussion of contemporary Westminster politics. Trends in such matters may have become the only common or shared indicators on the Westminster terrain and provide an important and useful peg on which to hang the discussion over emerging trends in the Westminster family. While flexibility is generally seen as a key virtue of the cabinet system (Bagehot, 1867/1963), it is also a key deficiency as its existence is almost entirely governed by convention rather than law. According to constitutional expert Wheare (1952), while ‘conventions’ are ‘crucial’ to the operation of Presidential systems, as instanced by the modern interpretation of the electoral college system in the United States, they are do not have ‘constitutive’ roles. In this chapter, New Zealand and Australia provide the country cases and the initial focus is upon the significance of electoral systems in generating policy and debate given New Zealand’s introduction of MMP for the 1996 election. Generally MMP and similar electoral systems would generate multiparty governance, prima facie incompatible with the parliamentary stability necessary for cabinet governance. A secondary issue, and a closely related question, is the leadership question. Constitutional expert Ivor Jennings suggests that the British Westminster system requires strong leaders, especially during times of crisis: leaders who push the boundaries, who are both ‘convincing’ and ‘persuasive’ and can hold the system together, including keeping ‘in step with public opinion’ (Jennings, 1958: 11). The leadership issue has at times been problematic for analysts because leadership is deemed by some to be incompatible with democracy. Hence the criticism levelled at Margaret Thatcher’s conservative government as an ‘elective dictatorship’. A more contemporary take on the topic is to talk about the ‘presidentialization’ of responsible government. One may contrast New Zealand with a parliamentary sovereignty heritage expected to promote strong leadership; and Australia where the federal constitution places constraints and challenges upon the prime minister thus requiring bargaining and negotiation skills (Weller, 1985). Mention should also be made of several other institutions and interests involved in contemporary politics that have helped to shape the debate over cabinet in general and caretaker conventions in particular. In the first instance, the media are a ‘driving force’ as a result of the communications revolution and they may set agendas and be utilized by prime ministers and opposition leaders, especially during periods of transition. Secondly, the bureaucracy is often called upon to reshape relationships consequent upon changes of government. Six permanent secretaries from the Australian Public Service were sacked post-1996 with the election of the Coalition Government.

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They also have a role in transitions: for example, the Solicitor-General, the Cabinet Secretary, the Finance Ministry and State Services Commission all have parts to play in New Zealand. In Australia, caretaker issues have come under scrutiny as part of a broader project, by some bureaucrats to ‘codify’ Westminster conventions more generally, and to regulate the behaviour of Ministers more specifically (see for example Davis et al., 2001; Commonwealth of Australia, 2007; Western Australia, Premier and Cabinet, 2008). Thirdly, political parties may be players. For example, party activists Peter Wilenski and Gareth Evans drafted the Australian Labor Party’s very detailed transition to government document in 1982. This predated the widespread move to codify conventions related to transition, and may be seen to have encouraged this process. New Zealand’s adoption of the parliamentary sovereignty path (see Wheare, 1952) is crucial for explaining much about its approach to transition. New Zealand officials have long drawn upon UK precedents when explaining the New Zealand approach. The UK history of cabinet governance is replete with examples of flexibility and outright experimentation, especially in times of war and economic crisis. The core of the so-called Westminster system is ‘cabinet government … with which we are familiar in Britain, in other members of the British Commonwealth and in the countries of Western Europe’; and the main requirement is that ‘the ministers, the heads of the executive, must be members of Parliament’ (Wheare, 1952: 37). The British Parliament is ‘supreme’ in that ‘it was controlled by political means and not by the law of the constitution’ and New Zealand is also in the class of countries without a supreme constitution (Wheare, 1952: 15, 26). In contrast, Australia has a written as well as a ‘rigid’ constitution in terms of the framework famously outlined by Lord Bryce (see Crisp, 1983). Two UK examples will indicate the extent of these experiments and the use of ‘avowed exceptions’ to the rules of cabinet. In May 1915 a Coalition Cabinet of 22 was established under Asquith including 12 Liberals, eight Conservatives, Arthur Henderson of the Labour Party, and Lord Kitchener – Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Under Lloyd George in late 1916 the War Cabinet became the Imperial War Cabinet with the ‘attendance of representatives of the dominions and India’ and in May 1917 General Smuts of South Africa became a full member of the latter (Thomson, 1965: 48). The ousting of Asquith by Lloyd George in late 1916 conducted in ‘secret, obscure internal processes of which the public only now know the main story’ (Churchill, quoted in Thomson, 1965: 47). Then during the Great Depression a multi-party national Government was formed based on an ‘agreement to differ’ wherein: ‘Dissentient ministers were allowed to remain within the ministry: in return for thus submitting to majority wishes, they were given the freedom to oppose tariffs publicly’ (Thomson, 1965: 144). The point of this discussion is that Britain, with the doctrine of parliamentary supremacy, was able to make such modifications to the ‘norm’ as

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outlined by Bagehot amongst others of cabinet as the ‘hyphen’ that links the legislature (and hence the people) to the executive (including the Monarch). Transitions were affected as well in the crisis period. Parliament ‘surrendered wide powers’ under the Defence of the Realm Acts so that the House elected in December 1910 had prolonged its life for eight years; and the transition from a Liberal to a wide-ranging Coalition Government under a different leader occurred without even a secret sitting of the Parliament.

New Zealand: Rules for effective electoral change Such UK examples help to explain why so many New Zealand officials distinguish between ‘law’ and ‘practical’ politics and can comfortably leave the mechanics of transitions to practical politics. For example, former New Zealand Solicitor – General John McGrath – also an important player in the 1993 post-election drama (outlined below) – cites A. V. Dicey when maintaining that the term ‘usage’ is a more appropriate word to describe the points made in the Cabinet Manual regarding caretaker matters (McGrath, 1999). He is supported by leading constitutional lawyers (see Joseph, 2008). Former NZ Governor General Sir Michael Hardie Boys (1997: 2) also agreed that transitions were ‘practical’ processes whereby the political parties in the House make their decisions publicly known and the result is then implemented by the Governor-General; and that it has ‘long been accepted … that the incoming administration acts on the advice of the outgoing administration’. His interpretation has been acknowledged by subsequent Governors-General. Political scientists tend to seek certainty and perhaps see the Cabinet Manual as a half-way house in the absence of legal or constitutional changes, such as fixed-term parliaments, and ‘constructive votes of no confidence’. All are designed to provide greater clarity and to avoid usurpation of power. For others (for example Keating, 1999), the Westminster system of responsible government with its mixture of formal law, conventions and usages functions well enough because of the regular elections that are ensured by key laws, including a written constitution in some Westminster countries, such as Australia and Canada. Recent work by political scientists on constitutional conventions in New Zealand has appropriately emphasized the impact of the MMP system upon the conventions of governance, notably the articulating of caretaker conventions for the period after an election has been held, when the election results are yet to be finalized. In fact a group of writers (Boston et al., 1998) argues that the New Zealand debate in the MMP era overemphasizes the post-election period, thus shifting the critical caretaker period until after an election, rather than before and after the election. While it is doubtless correct that MMP may have influenced Westminster norms in New Zealand, notably the conventions surrounding collective responsibility (Clark, 2005) and while it is tempting to use MMP as a hook

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on which to hang all recent changes in the New Zealand political system, a contrary interpretation is emerging. For example, Raymond Miller (2005) argues that the shape of the party system has been altered less than might have been expected. The outlines of an essentially two-party system and commitment to cabinet government remain. In fact, Helen Clark’s (2005) re-writing of the Cabinet Manual is very relevant here. Her explanation in the ‘Foreword’ to the updated manual states: ‘It amends the doctrine of collective responsibility to allow coalition parties to express differentiated positions within an agreed framework.’ In respect of the caretaker conventions specifically, there is also agreement that the political and economic crises of mid-1984, before the implementation of MMP, were a catalyst for the formalization of certain caretaker norms. The circumstances are well known and will be summarized only briefly. An election called in June 1984 resulted in a landslide against the incumbent National Party Government of Sir Robert Muldoon. Almost immediately after the election the Reserve Bank halted trading, such was the pressure on the New Zealand dollar. Muldoon, who was Finance Minister as well as the Prime Minister, ignored the advice from his advisors (senior public servants), from members of his own Cabinet and from the Leader of the Opposition (David Lange) and from the Shadow Finance Minister, to devalue the New Zealand dollar. Finally, after several crisis-ridden days, Muldoon agreed to devalue the dollar. These events have been outlined in a recent biography of Roger Deane (Bassett and Bassett, 2006) who was the Deputy-Governor of the Reserve Bank. An interview by the author with the Opposition Whip (5 May 2009) also highlights the role of Muldoon’s Attorney-General Jim McClay in pushing Muldoon to act on the advice of the incoming government. Boston et al. (1998) also note the similarity between the contents of McClay’s press release of the time and the first Report of the Officials Committee on Constitutional Reform regarding post-election constitutional conventions. Consequently, a Committee of Officials appointed by the Lange Government recommended the adoption of written ‘conventions’ relating to the behaviour of ‘outgoing’ or defeated governments in the post-election period. These will also be summarized briefly: first, that such governments should make no new policies; and, second, that they should accept the advice of the incoming government on urgent matters, even if that advice contradicts the outgoing government’s policies. These two conventions were subsequently accepted by both major parties and were formalized by publication in the Cabinet Office Manual of 1990. This crisis perhaps more importantly led to a constitutional amendment (1986) with an important redefinition of a minister, as someone who had successfully contested the recent election; thus allowing a swearing-in of a new government, before the new parliament had met and guaranteed confidence. The other salient political crisis in the period prior to the introduction of MMP was the considerable delay of nearly two weeks in declaring the

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results of the 1993 election, when ‘it was uncertain’ whether the National Government would be re-elected – in the event it was. The day after the election, the Prime Minister sought advice from the Cabinet Secretary and the Solicitor-General to the effect that his government should function in a ‘caretaker capacity’ and take only ‘routine decisions’. At the time, this edict was not constitutionally mandated nor formalized in the cabinet manual – although it was a well established principle in the standard constitutional texts. In fact, the 1996 changes to the manual were based on the 1993 precedent rather than simply in anticipation of protracted caretaker periods. A subsequent public lecture by the Solicitor-General (McGrath, 1999) argues that the cabinet manual is ‘descriptive’ rather than ‘prescriptive’ and lacks the force of law. This accords with Wheare’s (1952: 179) view that distinguishes ‘usage’ – ‘the usual practice’ – from ‘convention’ – ‘a binding rule’. This approach, which is consistent with orthodox legal readings of responsible government, contradicts the views of most political scientists (for example Tiernan, 2007) who assign considerable weight to the codification of ‘usages’ into cabinet manuals. New Zealand’s leading political scientists express concerns regarding the lack of formalized details covering the behaviour of governments in the pre-election period. In this vein, for example, Boston et al. (1998: 10) have advocated that New Zealand study the Australian caretaker conventions, which commence with the dissolution of the House of Representatives, rather than with the general election or the successful vote of no confidence during the parliamentary term. In New Zealand, the period after the dissolution of the House, or in some cases the three months before the end of the parliamentary term, may see governments exercise restraint with regard to ‘advertising’, or to ‘new appointments’. These broad usages are mentioned in the cabinet manual, but without the finer-grained detail of the coverage of the post-election period. It is argued by some, however, that caretaker conventions ‘may’ apply after the dissolution of the Parliament and until the election (see Boston et al., 1998: 10). The three-month period prior to the election is broadly governed by quite discretionary norms. This period is widely known as the ‘interregnum’ amongst practitioners. An interview by the author with the former Opposition Whip (5 May 2009) indicated that ‘interregnum’ was utilized by practitioners of the pre-MMP era. This covered a three-month period before the election, and a period – normally short, after the election. Yet in New Zealand the practice remains of prime ministers announcing elections well in advance of the dissolution of the Parliament and of conducting important parliamentary business after the election has been announced and when the country is in semi-election mode. In response, calls for the ‘policing’ of the pre-election period are gathering momentum in New Zealand. Most discussion in the media relates to the post-election period (Creech, 1996; Cunliffe, 2005; English, 2008). For example, during the 2008 election campaign, and after the dissolution of the House, the Labour Finance Minister

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announced a deposit guarantee scheme. Discussion ensued regarding the ‘politicization’ of the Reserve Bank and it was stated that: ‘[Michael] Cullen [Labour Finance Minister] brushed off allegations … of politicization’ and that in any case the opposition had in separate statements indicated support for such a scheme – given the economic climate (Kiwiblog, 2008). The Prime Minister’s Office indicated it had placed ‘no obstacles in the way of the Reserve Bank briefing the Opposition’. Others, however, commented that ‘caretaker conventions did not apply until after the election’ in New Zealand (Kiwiblog, 2008). Prime Minister Helen Clark’s September 2008 announcement of the general election date while the Parliament was in session had incensed the opposition parties and generated debate over the interregnum period and its protocols. Until the Parliament was dissolved in October, there were extraordinary scenes on the TV news of MPs in full election mode while debating Parliamentary business. A crucial Parliamentary committee was also sitting. Parliament was dissolved two working weeks after the announcement. However, as tends to be the case in New Zealand, the Parliament ran its full term.

Australia: Rules for restraining incumbency While the development of rules governing the caretaker period after the dissolution of Parliament and until the formation of a new government have been developed by the public service and generally been complied with, nonetheless the capacity of governments to legislate for incumbency advantage in terms of the electoral law and other matters has generated controversy. Incumbency advantage has also played out in Australia in terms of the willingness of governments to call early elections; and more generally to ‘play’ with the timing of announcements. Hence, in stark contrast, to Helen Clark’s actions in New Zealand, around 12 months earlier Australia’s Prime Minister John Howard announced an election during the weekend break prior to a scheduled parliamentary sitting and the Governor-General immediately dissolved the Parliament. The election writs were issued several days later. Part of John Howard’s reasoning was that it would be inappropriate and ‘wasteful’ of money and time if the Parliament were to meet again. The term ‘recall Parliament’ was utilized. He had behaved similarly in 1998, 2001 and 2004. The debate over election announcements in Australia is complicated by the willingness of political leaders to call early elections, which does not necessarily tend to be seen as illegitimate in Australia, especially when coupled in the public mind with the Prime Minister’s capacity to initiate a double dissolution with the appropriate trigger. However, John Howard’s actions in 2007 drew heavy criticism. Critics maintained that the shortness of time between the announcement and the election would have negative implications for the quality of Australian

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democracy by preventing qualified people from voting (Costar, 2009). Other issues raised regarding the Howard Government concerned the breach of caretaker norms by behaving as a ‘normal’ government after the announcement of the election date, and/or exploiting their executive authority for electoral purposes. Such a concern was expressed by Tiernan (2008: 28) who notes that in the weekend gap between Prime Minister Howard visiting the GovernorGeneral on Friday 5 October 2001 and the Parliament’s dissolution on 8 October, the Prime Minister committed 1000 ground troops to support the United States’ air-strikes in Afghanistan. Howard was criticized subsequently for not consulting the Opposition Leader Kim Beazley (Tiernan, 2008: 28). Jennings (1958: 158) states that such ‘strong leadership’ is entirely appropriate within a Westminster framework. This section of the chapter will present data on Australian Prime Ministerial election announcements since the mid-1980s and examine the question of the evolution of behavioural norms. It will argue that aspects of John Howard’s behaviour – where he ‘allegedly’ played fast and loose with caretaker conventions – can partly be interpreted as pay back for Bob Hawke and Paul Keating’s behaviour in the 1980s. It will also be argued that the special role of the Senate provides some legitimacy for a continuing political role for executive government. Since the 1990s the Australian ‘norm’ has been for the Prime Minister to visit the Governor-General, call the election, and set in motion the process for the issuing of writs almost immediately. Recently the main complication in this streamlined process related to the changes to the Commonwealth Electoral Act (CEA) passed in 2006 which provided for the electoral rolls to close three days after the issue of writs for updates, and for the rolls to close for new enrollees at 8:00 PM after the writs were issued. In 2007 the Parliament was dissolved and the writs issued several days after the Prime Minister’s visit to the Governor-General’s residence in Yarralumla (see Costar, 2009). Previously, under legislation introduced by the ALP Government in 1983, the rolls closed seven days after the writs. It is argued here that the Australian system already provides for a different type of parliament than the Westminster norm by including a powerful upper house. The Australian Senate was deliberately constructed to be a ‘continuing’ institution and may have a right to meet after the prorogation of the Parliament, and its committees do meet after the dissolution of the House (Evans, 1997: 485). Its role has evolved especially since the introduction of proportional representation for the 1949 election (van Onselen and Errington, 2005). The Senate’s evolving role has important implications for responsible government which is predicated on the executive being ‘in and of’ the Parliament (Crisp, 1983: 34). Clearly once the Parliament has been dissolved then the executive is normally deemed to be in ‘caretaker mode’ which continues through the election period and until it, or another ministry, has the confidence of the Parliament. The Commonwealth’s Guidelines

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(2007: 1) provide that the caretaker period ‘preceding an election for the House of Representatives’ commences with the dissolution of the House. The document is silent on the Senate’s role. Evans (1997: 483) notes that from 1928–90 the proclamations dissolving the House also ‘discharged’ Senators, despite lacking constitutional validity. However in Australia the continuing nature of the Senate – except where a double dissolution has occurred – means that the legislative function has a role independent of the executive. At times – such as on the eve of the 2004 election – Senate committees have used their work to embarrass the government of the day, and to conduct electoral politics within the Parliament. It is thus arguable that the existence of the Senate, coupled with its party political nature, and the impact of proportional representation, has engendered both a practice of the politicization of transition and an attempt to police that via the generation of guidelines and norms. Another part of the post-1990s norm has been for the Prime Minister’s announcement to be issued between parliamentary sessions, with signs of widespread acceptance of the idea that it would be wasteful for MPs to return to Parliament, or the idea that it would expedite campaigning for them to stay out in their constituencies. As noted above, John Howard adhered to this process; but as in so many other matters the precedent had already been set by Labor. The 1996 election was called by Prime Minister Keating almost two months after the Parliament had last met. He utilized the speedy timetable that John Howard also favoured. As Weller (1985) notes, the actions of Australian Prime Ministers are constrained by formal legislation. The Constitution provides for the broad timetable for the dissolution of the Parliament, the issuing of writs and other aspects of electoral management (sections 43 and 44) and includes special mention of the role of the States in the issuing of writs for Senate elections (section 12). The Commonwealth Electoral Act provides other constraints, but has been considerably amended by recent Governments. The latitude available to Prime Ministers is still considerable. The exercise of ‘informal’ power continues to be significant. Here the contrast between Clark and Howard has been noted. Clearly Clark – known to have been a campaigning asset for the New Zealand Labour Party – was able to use the additional parliamentary exposure to her advantage, as well as needing to the additional parliamentary time to complete the legislative agenda, especially regarding the Emissions Trading legislation. Using the Parliament as another forum for electioneering might be construed as another incumbency advantage. In recent times the best comparator with Helen Clark would be Bob Hawke. In 1984 and 1987 he announced his intention to call an election well ahead of the formal processes. For example in his memoirs he refers to a ‘seven-week long, nightmarish’ campaign’: ‘On 8th October I announced a 1st December poll … The pressure for an election … was irresistible’ (Hawke, 1994: 274). The

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official campaign from the issue of the writs to the election was 35 days. The House met until 11 October and the Senate until 24 October. Much of the business was routine; although the on-going Costigan Royal Commission into the Federated Ships Painters’ and Dockers’ Union provided controversy, with the Opposition Leader, Andrew Peacock referring to Bob Hawke as a ‘little crook’ because of the alleged links between the ALP, the unions and organized crime that the Costigan Commission was uncovering. Hawke and his advisors, or possibly Paul Keating and his advisors, had clearly learnt from the negativity of some of the 1984 parliamentary election campaign and determined to seize the initiative in the next election. In 1987 Hawke again made an informal announcement on 27 May, nine days ahead of the formal dissolution of the House. This time the Government seized the initiative in response to a question from a Labor MP – ‘Will the Treasurer and the Government be maintaining their commitment to fiscal responsibility during the election campaign? Will the Treasurer continue to provide specific figures and balance sheets and resist the temptation to follow others – I’m sorry to say, such as the Opposition Leader – in offering clichés.’ The Treasurer, Paul Keating replied: ‘We will be going to the election campaign offering the Australian people a very precious commodity that is now missing in the political landscape and that is hope’ (Hansard, 1 June 1987). The opposition replied in kind. John Howard, who had replaced Andrew Peacock as Liberal leader, asked a question without notice regarding the Australian union involvement in blockading shipping heading towards Fiji. He asked: ‘Who is running the country, the elected government or the trade unions of Australia?’ (Hansard, 1 June 1987). It is tempting to see Howard’s behaviour in 2001 where he undertook important policy-making between the announcement and the dissolution as ‘payback’ for Labor’s treatment of him in 1987: ‘… decision-making still rests with me because I am still Prime Minister. You continue, of course, to govern and you certainly continue to take decisions within any existing established policy’ (quoted in Tiernan, 2008: 28). The strategy adopted going in to the next election was in accord with the current norm. Parliament was in summer recess when Hawke called the next election, and the Governor-General immediately dissolved the Parliament and issued the writs. The shaky economic climate with high interest rates and global economic uncertainty meant that the Labor government was in a defensive mode, battling negative media coverage. The only plusses were continuing disarray in the opposition, where Andrew Peacock had toppled John Howard for the Liberal Party leadership and the signs of growing support for the Greens and other minor parties which could return to Labor under the preferential voting system. According to Hawke: ‘… the third party preference strategy was well advanced … (and) … polling underlined the environment as the second most important concern behind the economy’ (Hawke, 1994: 478).

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Hawke presented as an embattled prime minister who did not wish to meet the parliament, rather like a prime minister who knows that to debate the opposition leader will provide her with opportunities. John Warhurst (2002: 12) reminds us that even unpopular opposition leaders do well in debates as was the case during the controversial 2001 election campaign when ‘Beazley won the debate … and the polls began to show Labor reducing the Government’s big lead’. Yet previously in 1984 and 1987 Hawke’s confidence carried him through both the parliamentary election campaign and into the Leader’s debate. David Butler made this comment on the 1984 debate: ‘An honourable Bob Hawke felt bound by a promise made when he was unsuccessfully challenging Prime Minister Fraser to a televised debate in 1983 … Mr Hawke gave Mr Peacock ninety minutes of television time before a huge captive audience, that saw him as being treated as equal with the Prime Minister and demonstrating comparable authority and articulacy’ (quoted in Hawke, 1994: 276–7). To use a soccer analogy, the Leaders’ debate was viewed as an ‘own goal’ by Hawke. This was a clear case of prime ministerial ‘overstretch’ where a risk taking style and an attempt to seek advantages from a position of incumbency strength failed to work.

Conclusion: Comparing caretaker conventions Prime ministers have a range of tactics and opportunities but most involve a degree of unpredictability. This chapter contrasts two readings or variants of political leadership in the transition stages under Westminster: an ‘Australian variant’ that focuses upon the need for prime ministerial ‘restraint’ after an election announcement is made; and a ‘New Zealand variant’ which provides more latitude, suggesting that a prime minister may take risks as part of her leadership style. Australian commentators want their prime ministers to behave ethically once they are in election mode. New Zealand commentators are more relaxed and are prepared – in most instances – to leave this to practical politics. The New Zealand focus on the post-election period predates the adoption of MMP in 1996 and emerged from a political crisis. The issue here is whether using the Parliament to announce an election is a good tactic, and/or bad politics. Certainly in Australia in 1984, the length of the campaign was seen as a negative feature by the ALP campaign director (personal communication with the ALP National Secretary). There is little evidence regarding the electoral effects of the Labor Government’s electioneering in the Parliament. Turning to the ethical side, one concern might be the government’s possible manipulation of political institutions for electoral advantage. It is this concern that has underpinned criticism of the government’s use of public resources – such as postal and advertising budgets – for re-election purposes (see Young, 2004); and also underpinned criticism of government’s politicizing the public service during an election campaign,

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such as occurred in 2001 (see Tiernan, 2008). Yet the electioneering role of the Australian Parliament is more complex. While the Senate’s continuing and independent role is not in doubt, and would provide justification for its committees to play politics during campaigns, the fact remains that by convention prime ministers are not senators. Yet according to some readings of Westminster (see Jennings, 1958) responsible government offers prime ministers wide latitude, and different times require different skills and approaches. According to this view of governance, public opinion via regular elections will make the appropriate judgements. This chapter has argued that a key characteristic of the Westminster system is the diffuseness of executive power, and that leaders who are intent on winning will exploit such loose boundaries to their advantage. The transition period, however it may be defined, permits wide latitude for leaders, especially in times of economic or political crisis; and that while changes to electoral systems influence the way norms are expressed, changes to those norms are more influenced by other factors, such as the constitutional framework and the political culture. The chapter shows that a mix of factors has combined to create distinctive transition debates in Australia and New Zealand. These are: institutional ones such as Australian Senate which has created the norm of a continuous campaign and heightened the politicization of the pre-election period, and the greater independence of the New Zealand Public Service; and cultural factors notably leadership styles where the emergence of leaders such as Bob Hawke (Australia) and Helen Clark (New Zealand) has led to risk taking including around transition matters. Further research as to why risk taking leaders emerge is a topic for another study.

Bibliography Bagehot, W. (1867/1963) The English Constitution (London: Fontana). Bassett, M. and Bassett, J. (2006) Roderick Deane: His Life and Times (Auckland: Penguin Books). Boston, J., Levine, S., McLeay, E., Roberts, N. S. and Schmidt, H. (1998) ‘Caretaker government and the evolution of caretaker conventions in New Zealand’, Victoria University of Wellington Law Review, 30. Accessed June 2009 http://www.austlii.edu.au/ nz/journals/VUWLRev/1998/30.html. Boys, M. H. (1997) ‘Speech by the RT Hon Sir Michael Hardie Boys to the 1997 Harkness Henry lecture: Continuity and change’, 31 July. Accessed July 2009 http://www.gg. govt.nz/node/471. Clark, H. (2005) Foreword to the Cabinet Manual. Accessed December 2008 http:// www.dpmc.govt.nz. Commonwealth of Australia (2007) Guidance on Caretaker Conventions (Canberra: AGPS). Costar, B. (2009) ‘New rules of the game’, Australian Cultural History. Special Issue: Kevin 07 – The 2007 Australian Election, edited by M. Simms, 27(2), 97–102. Creech, W. (1996) ‘Tertiary funding allocations for 1997’. Media release, 6 November.

Marian Simms 107 Crisp, L. F. (1983) Australian National Government, 5th edn (Melbourne: Longmans). Cunliffe, D. (2005) ‘Speech to the NZ Institute of Chartered Accountants’, Tax Matters Archive. Accessed June 2008 http://www.taxpolicy.ird.govt.nz/news/archive. Davis, G., Ling, A., Scales, B. and Wilkins, R. (2001) ‘Rethinking caretaker conventions for Australian governments’, Australian Journal of Public Administration, 60(3), 11–26. English, B. (2008) ‘Labour reminded about caretaker convention’, Press Release, 13 November. Evans, H. (1997) Odger’s Australian Senate Practice, 8th edn (Canberra: AGPS). Hawke, R. (1994) The Hawke Memoirs (Port Melbourne: William Heinemann). Jennings, I. (1958) The British Constitution (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Joseph, P. A. (2008) ‘MMP and the constitution: Future constitutional challenges’. Paper presented at the symposium on MMP and the Constitution: 15 years Past, 15 years Forward. New Zealand Centre for Public Law, Victoria University of Wellington, 26–27 August. Keating, M. (1999) ‘The public service: Independence, responsibility and responsiveness’, Australian Journal of Public Administration, 58(1), 39–47. Kiwiblog (2008) ‘Bollard admits risk in deposit guarantee scheme’. Accessed June 2009 http://www.cc.bing.com/cache. McGrath, J. (1999) ‘The Henry Harkness lecture: The Crown, the Parliament and the Government’, Waikato Law Review, 7, 1–21. Malone, P. (2007) ‘Time to tighten caretaker conventions’, Democratic Audit of Australia Discussion Paper, 3/07, Canberra: Australian National University. Miller, R. (2005) Party Politics in New Zealand (Auckland: Oxford University Press). Rhodes, R. (2005) ‘Australia: The Westminster model as tradition’, in H. Patapan, J. Wanna and P. Weller (eds) Westminster Legacies: Democracy and Responsible Government in Asia, Australasia and the Pacific (Sydney: University of New South Wales Press), pp. 129–52. The Commonwealth’s Guidelines on Commonwealth of Australia (2007). Thomson, D. (1965) England in the Twentieth Century (Harmondsworth: Penguin). Tiernan, A. (2007) Power Without Responsibility: Ministerial Staffers in Australian Governments from Whitlam to Howard (Sydney: University of New South Wales). Tiernan, A. (2008) Caretaker Conventions in Australasia (Canberra: ANU E Press). van Onselen, P. and Errington, W. (2005) ‘Shock troops: The emerging role of senators in House of Representative campaigns’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 40(3), 357–71. Warhurst, J. (2002) ‘International versus domestic issues’, in J. Warhurst and M. Simms (eds) 2001 The Centenary Election (St Lucia: University of Queensland Press). Weller, P. (1985) First Among Equals: Prime Ministers in Westminster Systems (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Weller, P. and Keating, M. (2000) ‘Cabinet government: An institution under pressure’, in M. Keating, J. Wanna and P. Weller (eds) Institutions on the Edge: Capacity for Governance (Sydney: Allen & Unwin), pp. 45–73. Western Australia, Premier and Cabinet (2008) Caretaker Conventions (Perth: Government Printer). Wheare, K. C. (1952) Modern Constitutions (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Young, S. (2004) The Persuaders: Inside the Hidden World of Political Advertising (Sydney: Pluto Press).

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Part II Understanding Successions

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7 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat: A Comparative Analysis of Party Leader Successions Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart

Into the hot seat Seen from the outside, the leadership position in a political party or government is coveted by many. Yet party leadership and, possibly in its wake, a prime-ministership or a presidency are ‘hot seats’ in more than one sense. They are not just hot in terms of the potential for power and authority they bring to those that occupy them; they are also hot in terms of attracting competition and controversy. Leadership of a party is more often than not a precarious possession: not only do political leaders lead their lives constantly in the public eye with all the drawbacks that this entails, but there are also plenty of people ready to criticize their performance. There is no shortage of potential competitors either, all whom are brooding on how and when to take over the top job. In dealing with leadership issues, political parties generally will want to balance stability at the top with the leverage to rid themselves of unpopular, ill-respected or otherwise unsuitable leaders. They also need to decide how inclusive they want to be when it comes to making decisions about the leadership. In this light they need to consider the pros and cons of different modes for selecting (Marsh, 1993; Davis, 1998; LeDuc, 2001) and removing (Weller, 1983, 1994; Alderman and Smith, 1990; Quinn, 2005) leaders. This means choosing between different types of ‘selectorates’ (actors and bodies involved in selecting and dismissing leaders), varying from the closed circle of elite consultation to party room voting to leadership conferences to all-member ballots (see also Heppell, 2008, 2010). As noted in the introductory chapter, much of the prior research on democratic leadership succession focuses on the role of these institutional 111

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mechanisms. This line of inquiry is pursued further in Cross and Blais (this volume). In our contribution, we turn to the other side of the coin: the role of key protagonists in succession episodes – incumbent and aspiring party leaders – and the ‘temperature’ of the resultant process in which leadership issues are being settled. Taking into account the party’s rules and traditions, the political context at the time, and their relative standing within and outside the party, leadership hopefuls face delicate choices in manoeuvring to overcome the obstacles that confront them in what is more often than not a long and arduous road to the top. Moreover, once in office, party leaders encounter a new set of choices, evolving around the balance between two contradictory desiderata: preserving party unity by projecting continuity versus asserting authority by highlighting the differences between the outgoing and the new regime. We explore the extent to which the actors in question can and do shape their own fates despite these institutional and contextual constraints, and the degree to which new leaders can become the victims of the very adversarial nature of the process through which they have gained the top job. To look at this question, we have used a dataset of leadership successions in combination with cases studies and in-depth research. In terms of scope, the dataset attempts to capture as many leaders of parties that held office at least once between 1945 and 2009 in countries defined as democracies in Arend Lijphart’s Patterns of Democracy (1999). Not all could be included, either because of a lack of available information for a non-native speaker to collect (e.g. Mauritius), the institutional impossibility of establishing a single political party leader in some countries (e.g. Italy prior to 1992), or a change in their democratic status since the publication of the book (e.g. Venezuela). Ultimately, 23 out of Lijphart’s 36 were included.1 The database comprises 515 cases of succession since 1945, covering 66 political parties in 23 countries. We coded each case on 36 different variables, covering the main protagonists’ demographic characteristics; the duration as well as key characteristics of the beginning and end of their leadership tenures; party and party system variables; and outcome variables.2 Only a limited part of the dataset will be used here and we will limit ourselves to basic descriptive and correlational analyses. In addition we drew on high profile cases well-documented in the succession literature and the popular press for illustrative and explorative purposes.

Assessing succession outcomes We first turn to the dependent variable: succession outcomes. These were measured using two key indicators: the longevity of the leader and the party’s first post-succession election results under a new leader in terms of the change in seat share and vote share. In our sample, leadership longevity

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ranges from a little as 47 days in the case of Sir Donald Sangster’s leadership of the Jamaican Labour Party to an epic 12,988 days (>35 years) in the case of Dom Mintoff’s leadership of the Maltese Labour Party. Although the arithmetic mean would postulate that leaders on average lead their parties for five to seven years, the highly skewed and kurtotic nature of the longevity distribution means the large majority of leaders either far exceed or fall far short of that time period (see Figure 7.1). Nearly a quarter of leaders (100 of 452) did not make it to the end of a second year in office and about 35 per cent (162 of 452) did not reach beyond a third. A minority of countries such as Australia and New Zealand has had three-year electoral cycles for all or most of the research period. Yet this can hardly explain such startling results. At the other end, an equally remarkable near 30 per cent of party leaders survived for ten or more years in office (125 of 452). What we see seems to be a crash or crash-through pattern of party leadership: most new party leaders either leave office quickly or complete a relatively long term. This pattern of distribution is relatively uniform when controlling for national political cultures, electoral systems and party types. In terms of nations, only Malta, Trinidad and Tobago, Jamaica and Botswana (which contribute only a very small number of cases between them) prove to deviate

Histogram

Mean = 7.22 Std. Dev. = 6.585 N = 452

Frequency

60

40

20

0 0.00

10.00

20.00 duration (years)

Figure 7.1

Party leader longevity distribution

30.00

40.00

114 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

from the above distribution pattern significantly, and in all four cases the leaders of parties in these countries stay in office much longer than average. Also noteworthy is Japan – though it does not deviate as much as the other four cases, it is a negative outlier, with many of its leaders holding onto office for shorter periods than counterparts in other countries. In terms of electoral systems there was some expectation that the leadercentric and rough-and-tumble nature of the Westminster system might depress leader longevity. Not so in our dataset. Leaders from Westminster systems were somewhat more likely to exit within two years (24% v. 19%) but served comparable mean terms (7.3 years for Westminster vs. 6.9 years for non-Westminster). Similarly, there are no significant differences in patterns of leadership longevity across two-party, multi-party, or so-called ‘two-and-a-half-party’ systems – all three exhibited a distribution pattern very similar to the general pattern outlined above, with no system much more likely to produce long- or short-term leaders. There is some deviation in the case of simple two-party systems, with more medium-term leaders (and hence a less skewed and kurtotic distribution) than the other systems, however overall the difference is relatively small. The major outlier is the uncommon party arrangement (representing less than 5 per cent of the cases) – the Dominant Party system. Countries with a single dominant party operating either feature leaders much longer or rather shorter than the norm – Japan, Luxemburg and Botswana being obvious examples. We measured the electoral impact of succession in terms of the percentage change in the total vote share and seat share achieved by a party at the first election after the selection of a new leader when compared with the previous election. Post-succession election results were nearly evenly divided between negative and positive outcomes in a fairly normal (though strongly peaked) distribution, with the average change in vote share very slightly positive at +0.0629 and the average change in seat share also slightly positive at +0.4162. There is little evidence in these figures or in the general distribution of the results to suggest then that a change in leader is likely to deliver a good or bad outcome – that is to say it is unlikely a change of leader in and of itself is a necessarily positive or negative factor at subsequent elections. The control variables do not have much of an impact on post-succession election results. In some countries (such as Canada and Barbados) the change in seat share can be more dramatic due to the design of the electoral system, but the more reliable figure of vote share does not change very significantly across systems. The two measures of succession outcomes may be correlated. In a world of rational political actors, new leaders are generally expected to help improve their party’s showing in the polls and at the next election. This then becomes a requirement for them to be seen as successful and be able to retain office (see Andrews and Jackman, 2008). There is in fact a weak but statistically significant correlation in this dataset linking the difference

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 115

between the incumbent’s last election result and the successor’s first on the one hand and the successor’s tenure length on the other (for vote share difference, Pearson’s R = +0.213, sig. p < 0.01; for seat share difference, Pearson’s R = +0.243, sig. p < 0.01). However, the numbers do not speak for themselves, as contemporaries interpret the election outcomes in view of the prevailing prognoses, circumstances and climate, adjusting their aspiration levels accordingly. Some parties may improve their number of seats considerably from one election to the next, yet still their leaders will be regarded as not very successful, because the aspiration level was for them to do even better. But the reverse also holds true: parties may lose seats under the new leadership’s first election, but that fact may not necessarily be held against the leader if contextual factors are judged to have conspired against any better result from the outset. In coalition systems moreover, parties can ‘lose’ the election but be perceived to have ‘won’ the subsequent coalition formation process through deft postelectoral manoeuvring. We should place these patterns of succession outcomes in a somewhat broader perspective. The nature of the political process has been widely depicted as having undergone significant changes during the post-World War II period. Key megatrends include secularization, dissolution or reconfiguration of social cleavages, a decline of partisan loyalty among voters, decline of trust in political institutions, and the rise of televised and webbased political competition. These have combined to produce what has been called a growing ‘personalization’ of the political process, and certainly of voter choices (Blondel and Thibault, 2009; Aarts et al., 2010; cf. King, 2002). People do appear to vote less and less for parties per se, and more and more for (or against) individual leaders than they used to. We take this to imply that the stakes for leadership succession have risen over time. The electoral fate of the party depends increasingly on ‘picking a winner’ in for the leadership, and consequently the leader’s fate rests more on the ability to deliver electoral results and maintain public popularity than in previous periods. In an age of constant opinion polling and volatile public sentiment, this means too that a leader who fails to deliver can expect punishment faster and more severely. Indeed, in our dataset there is a significant negative correlation (Pearson’s R = –0.457, sig. p < 0.01) between the historical era when the leader took office and their longevity. Contemporary leaders serve for far shorter than their post-war counterparts. Comparing two similar time periods (1945–65 vs. 1989–2009) at opposite ends of our research period, interestingly the crash/crash-through distribution pattern still (roughly) holds, though midpoints and range of the distributions are radically different. Leaders in the contemporary group served a median time in office of 1037 days, almost two-thirds less that of the post-war group (2973 days). Just fewer than 25 per cent of leaders in the post-war group served in excess of 6000 days

116 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

– no leader in the contemporary group accomplished this, and just 6 per cent led in excess of 4500 days. So if anything, the stakes for making the ‘right choices’ have increased in recent decades. Let us now turn to the roles and impact of key protagonists in succession episodes (aspirants and incumbents) and the resulting climate of the succession process that results from their postures and choices.

Explaining succession outcomes: Protagonists and processes Aspirants and new leaders Prior to a succession episode, members of the party elite who have either publicly committed to having leadership ambitions or are touted to entertain such ambitions, face three strategic choices when a succession trigger materializes. The first is whether or not to run at the present time. This is not a vacuous choice. Although succession triggers – bad polls, backbench revolts, factional wars, ill health or death of the incumbent – do not come along all that often in most parties, even the most ambitious aspirant realizes that some occasions are better than others for them to try and take the helm of the party. Certain triggers may come too early or for that matter too late in terms of their political capital with the power brokers and the rank and file of the party. Moreover, some points in the political business cycle are far less attractive than others to be cast into the leadership. For example, long-term governing parties that have recently lost government are hardly a promising prospect, or, in proportional representation electoral systems, parties that are consistently outmanoeuvred in coalition formation processes. Likewise, parties that suffer from bitter internal divisions on one or several key long-term political issues (for example, the British Conservatives on ‘Europe’ during the 1990s and beyond, as well as various European social democratic parties on nuclear rearmament and nuclear power generation in the 1980s and 1990s) may present poisoned chalices to leadership aspirants. In all of these circumstances, key leadership hopefuls may decide to forego running at the time when a succession trigger presents itself. For those that do decide to run at a particular time, two further choices are pivotal: how to position themselves towards the incumbent leader and towards the party’s current platform. All options have potential benefits and risks. Take for example the relationship to the incumbent. Aspirants may seek to become his preferred replacement in a mutually agreed upon strategy of ‘managed transition’. But they may also deliberately present themselves as an overt critic of the existing leader, and promise ‘new departures’ and ‘different leadership’ to constituencies. In the former case, they make their political fate dependent upon the state of mind and loyalty of someone who is not necessarily motivated to act nobly and altruistically. When they choose a competitive mode, candidate leaders expose them-

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 117

selves to the ire of the incumbent and his entourage – powerful enemies to make. Moreover, dependent upon their tone and timing they run the risk of splitting the entire party and hurting its political standing, at least in the short run. This will leave them with even more enemies within the party establishment. Aspiring leaders who want to take the confrontational route not only need to believe strongly in the popular appeal of their candidacy but also need a coincidental succession context that makes this political gamble seem potentially viable, perhaps even necessary. This occurs when there is widespread or at least growing public (and/or media) dissatisfaction with the existing leadership, which would be most pronounced in the case of a succession episode triggered by a scandal involving the incumbent or an incumbent having lost an election widely regarded a winnable. In addition, aspirants also face a key tactical choice when a succession trigger materializes (particularly in case of an exogenous trigger): make their ambitions known, and risk mobilizing their own opposition; or be silent about their plans at the risk of handing the initiative to others that do ‘come out’. In this sense then, an aspirant can run for a leadership position without waging an actual campaign. Incumbent leaders know this all too well: the pledges of continued support given to them by even their closest colleagues are always conditional and provisional, and sometimes clearly hypocritical. This can induce paranoia in them at times when their political stocks are low. Moving to the post-succession stage, newly elected party leaders must decide what to do with their new role. Some come to the job meticulously prepared; others are cast into the role quite unexpectedly. Some are policy wonks with detailed ideas about the future of the party programme and its electoral platform in the next election. Others, having concentrated their efforts on getting enough votes within the party organization to get in, now primarily begin to focus on becoming known and liked enough by the rest of the electorate to win the next election. Whichever inclination they might have, none of them can escape the key question of how to relate to, and sometimes deal with, their predecessor. The new leader who ran as a ‘loyalist’ type aspirant has the problem of coming to be seen as ‘his own man’ without losing the support of the former leader and his coalition. Shortly after taking over from Margaret Thatcher, John Major had to endure opposition jibes that he was the ‘no change, no-majority prime minister’, and touting him ‘to stamp his own authority on the government he has inherited, to provide that he is not “son of Thatcher”’ (Seldon, 1998: 132). Major took that advice and started probing new departures in policy and political style, only to earn himself the animosity of his predecessor who would undercut him at every possible opportunity and weaken his position within the party. By comparison, successors who take control after both the old policies and the old leader have

118 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

been firmly discredited have a much easier job. The necessity for renewal is uncontested, and putting distance between the past and the present is not so much a delicate option but an elementary political necessity. The toughest challenge is perhaps faced by new leaders who ran as reformers or revolutionaries. Established political parties tend to be creatures of history. They tend to cherish their past, their traditions, and their historical programmatic cores. Long-standing members of a party’s ruling oligarchies tend to invoke these to protect their turf, patronage networks and key policy commitments. To get them to change course and implement reform is a daunting task for any leader (Panebianco, 1988; Katz and Mair, 1995). But it is even more daunting for a leader who has recently been voted in, and still has to establish himself within the party, its closest social and political allies, and among the general electorate. Table 7.1

Strategic choice for leadership aspirants and new leaders

Attitude towards party platform

Attitude towards incumbent Supportive

Critical

Supportive

Loyalist (Louis St. Laurent, Canadian Liberal Party, 1948)

Rival (Jenny Shipley, New Zealand National Party, 1997)

Critical

Reformer (Tony Blair, UK Labour Party, 1994)

Revolutionary (Gough Whitlam, Australian Labor Party, 1966–67)

Table 7.1 summarizes the main strategic options aspirants and new leaders face. Assuming that parties generally are path-dependent, risk-averse organizations, we can therefore put forward the proposition that: (1) Loyalists are the most likely, and revolutionaries the least likely, to experience a successful succession (except for periods immediately following major election losses and/or losses of government for the parties when reformers are more likely than loyalists). For each leader in the dataset we sought to code them corresponding to the typology. We coded conservatively: an aspiring/new party leader was only classified as ‘critical’ in terms of platform and predecessor only when this was unambiguously the case. Those who took a mixed or moderate stance were generally coded as supportive on those counts. We did not code cases where there was insufficient information to make a judgement. Table 7.2 shows that half of our leaders could be considered to be loyalists, with the other three categories sharing the remaining cases in roughly equal proportion, though leaders considered to be purely rivals are the rarest of the types.

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 119 Table 7.2

Distribution of aspirant/new leader types Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

Valid Loyalist Reformer Revolutionary Rival Total

238 85 64 50 437

46.1 16.5 12.4 9.7 84.7

54.3 19.4 14.6 11.4 100.0

54.6 74.0 88.6 100.0

Missing Total

79 516

15.3 100.0

Table 7.3 describes the distribution of succession outcomes (longevity; electoral results in first election).3 It is immediately clear that ‘rivals’, with a trimmed mean of serving time of just 3.72 years and 50 per cent serving less than two years in office, are clearly least likely to secure a smooth succession for themselves. The distribution of longevities for the rival category is heavily weighted towards an early exit. When they do make it to the next election, they have not been overly successful but neither have they been disastrous.

Type

Mean

Trimmed Mean

Median

Loyalist

Vote Share Change Seat Share Change Tenure (Years)

–1.0528 –1.8565 5.4910

–0.9373 –1.0452 4.9569

–0.4350 –0.5700 3.7288

39.973 119.616 25.118

–.422 –1.829 1.686

2.177 7.935 3.284

Vote Share Change Seat Share Change Tenure (Years)

0.8316 2.5291 9.5978

0.7923 1.7521 9.2339

1.2000 0.6000 8.8000

25.245 100.624 37.728

0.066 1.796 0.751

0.476 6.642 0.203

Vote Share Change Seat Share Change Tenure (Years)

2.8214 4.7376 10.5991

2.5024 3.9571 10.0025

2.7000 1.0000 9.8301

34.084 120.367 57.221

0.834 1.383 1.153

0.697 2.062 1.738

Vote Share Change Seat Share Change Tenure (Years)

–.1225 0.2692 3.4844

–.3618 –.3169 3.0782

–0.8000 –0.6150 1.9986

38.516 95.306 12.192

0.800 0.813 1.799

2.431 0.986 2.848

Rival

Post-Succession Outcome

Reformer

Succession outcomes for successor types

Revolutionary

Table 7.3

Variance Skewness Kurtosis

120 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

Conversely ‘reformers’ experience the most successful successions. The reformer group has the closest thing yet found in any our testing to a standard distribution, with the most significant clustering of leaders occurring close to the mean. Only 17 per cent of leaders in this category do not make it to the fourth year (again, much lower than for any other grouping studied in this chapter). Although their mean tenure length and electoral results are not as high as for the revolutionary group, the sheer consistency of relatively strong results in this group make it the most successful. ‘Revolutionaries’ are also relatively successful, with the highest mean serving times and electoral results post-succession. However the distribution of longevities is closer to the crash/crash-through model observed earlier and the strong results of some are offset by really poor results of others. Finally, loyalists are a slightly underperforming group, though as expected for the default group, their succession results and respective distributions are very similar to the population as a whole. Revolutionaries and reformers are therefore the most successful groups when compared against the dataset as a whole (and rivals the most unsuccessful). What is more, the pattern of consistency in their success suggests that it is not dependent on specific circumstances, though some context factors do make a difference. For example, revolutionaries and reformers stand little chance of succeeding in governing parties: of the 98 successions which were both for party leader and head of government, and there was sufficient data to code for successor typology, just 18 (18.4%) produced either of those two types. Rewarding loyalty seems to be the norm for in-government successions: in 71.4 per cent of such successions loyalists took over, and in 10.2 per cent rivals (who support the party platform though not the incumbent). In contrast, opposition parties were more than twice as likely (41.5%) than governing parties to take a chance on reformers or revolutionaries. Clearly, parties in electoral trouble are more willing to change in order to appeal to the electorate once more, and when they do secure the leadership reformers and revolutionaries are often able to lift their parties from periods of lacklustre party performance. Conversely, although they most often manage to secure succession, contrary to Proposition 1 loyalists do not seem to have better chances of succeeding as party leader. Even though they are the overwhelming favourites to succeed (particularly in governing parties), our data suggest that in-government successions are mostly unsuccessful and even in non-governing parties loyalist new leaders don’t do well. What works to get into leadership is different from what it takes to succeed once in the hot seat. Although Proposition 1 is not well supported, a few interesting patterns have emerged from our analysis of it. Firstly, the difference in success between rivals on the one hand, and reformers or revolutionaries on the other, provides an interesting observation. Conflict between predecessor and successor seems a

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 121

significant factor only when the successor is not also trying to affect major change to the party as a whole. The strong electoral results banked by both reformers and revolutionaries indicates that the public are much more interested in platform change than party intrigue, and strong electoral results are usually sufficient to quell party critics and settle the matter of a dispute succession. Australian Labor Party leader Gough Whitlam was the classic revolutionary – fiercely committed to party and platform change and an ongoing thorn in the side the Labor old guard, his assumption of the leadership in 1967 heralded a significant and internally contentious change in the party. Yet despite his initially rocky years as leader, the ALP’s strong results at the 1969 election quieted his critics and consolidated his leadership. Unlike reformers, revolutionaries have less room for error in their initial leadership and perhaps their main drawback is increased animosity and eventual ‘payback’ from within their own parties (discussed further below). By avoiding interpersonal acrimony, reformers on the other hand may have greater room to move and be given more time to allow their reforms to take effect. For example, Guido Westerwelle’s ascent to the leadership of the Free Democratic Party of Germany (FDP) in 2001 marked a period of significant reform for the party. However the party was slow to reap the benefits of change, garnering only slightly improved results at the 2002 elections. Yet Westerwelle was internally well positioned within the FDP and maintained the support of his colleagues and the more traditional wing of the party long enough to see unprecedented back-to-back electoral gains in 2005 and 2009, followed by a return into government. The major risk for reformers (or for that matter, revolutionaries) is to move their parties in the ‘wrong’ direction, e.g. Michael Foot’s retroactive socialist reform agenda for the UK Labour Party proving to be a disaster at the 1983 elections. Although many parties will instinctively chose loyalists, particularly in high stakes situations (such as when the party is in government), it is not clear that this choice is manifestly the safer one than more reformist alternatives. Incumbents Unless succession episodes are self-initiated, or imposed on them by force majeure or non-negotiable term limits, incumbents need to make up their mind whether to stay or go. If they decide to go, they need to consider whether and how to influence the selection of a successor. If they decide to stay, they face the tactical choice of how to best achieve that goal: by avoiding or delaying any formal decision moment whilst working hard to reassert their authority within the party, or by calling their detractors’ bluff by pre-emptively forcing a decision sooner rather than later? We should keep in mind in all of this that the degree to which incumbents’ choices or preferences impact upon the course and outcomes of succession processes is largely contingent upon their standing within the party and among the public at the relevant point in time.

122 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

In short: the stronger the incumbent’s authority and the stronger his determination to stay, the lower the likelihood that succession will occur. At the same time however, when high-authority incumbents decide to step down of their own accord, they – unlike low-authority incumbents – may still be able to exercise considerable influence over the party’s selection of the successor. Table 7.4 provides a typology of incumbent’s strategic positions vis-à-vis a looming succession challenge. From it we can derive the following proposition concerning the viability of the various strategic options incumbents face at such times: (2) Ceteris paribus, ‘winners’ are the least likely and ‘losers’ the most likely to be forced or pressured to resign by their parties. Table 7.4 A typology of incumbent leaders’ positions vis-à-vis succession challenges

Hold Over Own Party

Level of External Support Strong

Weak

Firm

Winner Impossible to challenge (Tage Erlander, Swedish Social Democratic Party, 1946–69)

Oligarch Will put up a hard fight until electoral realities are really overwhelming (Arthur Calwell, Australian Labor Party, 1960–67)

Weak

Maverick Vulnerable to changing public sentiment (Willy Brandt, German Social Democratic Party, 1964–74)

Loser Ripe for the kill (Michael Foot, British Labour Party, 1980–83)

In testing the proposition, we did not code for the degree of control leaders have over their parties, and measuring their relative external support (outside of elections) is currently beyond the scope of our current dataset. The true nature the leader’s standing within their own party often does not become apparent to outsiders until a major event occurs which can serve as a litmus test one way or the other (e.g. leadership challenges or party conferences). Secondly, for cases occurring before the age of constant public polling, determining leaders’ public popularity produced a high number of missing cases. So the account that follows will be qualitative and exploratory. The 163 total cases in the dataset where the leader has been either forced to leave or has done so under duress are quite diverse. However, it is rare indeed to find a case where a leader was pressured or forced to resign whilst simultaneously popular with the public and well positioned within their

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 123

party. When examples are found, they tend to be unusual or unexpected cases. For example, the 1967 resignation of Liberal People’s Party (LPP) leader Dr Bertil Ohlin came at a time when Ohlin was still a popular elder statesman in Sweden and commanded a great deal of respect and admiration within his own party. Ohlin had led the LPP since 1944 and had carried the party to record election results. Although results in the latter half of his leadership were not of the calibre of the first half, even the worst result under his leadership (in 1964) was much better than any result received prior his leadership (and as time would tell, after it as well). An intellectual giant and future Nobel Prize winner in economics, Ohlin also occupied the pinnacle of policy competence in his party and commanded the support of the rank and file. In the late 1960s a movement had emerged in the youth wing of the party. Future LPP leaders Ola Ullsten and Per Ahlmark began to pressure for change and renewal within the party and sought to draw Ohlin into retirement. Although Ohlin still commanded strong support from within the parliamentary party and with the Swedish public, he was 68 and a series of political successes by the youth wing despite his opposition was enough to trigger his resignation in 1967. However, it must be said that the threshold for Ohlin’s resignation was in this case much lower than usual – it is unlikely a direct challenge to Ohlin’s leadership from the youth movement would have succeeded. As predicted, ‘losers’ are well represented within the duress/forced exit subset. Leaders who come to office with little power within the party and who fail to gel with the public often do not last long and are forced out. Although an honest and hard working politician, Enneüs Heerma’s leadership of the Dutch Christian Democratic Appeal was doomed almost from the start. A long-time, mainly ‘technocratic’ cabinet minister, he came into office in the wake of the party’s dramatic 1994 election defeat after which it was relegated to opposition for the first time in history. The party room was dispirited and fractious. Heerma’s style and message did not resonate with the Dutch public as he struggled to make headway in the polls. The party swiftly made his position untenable and he was compelled to resign before fighting a single election as the party turned to the up-and-coming Jaap de Hoop Scheffer (soon to meet a similarly ignominious end). Leaders like Luis Marques Mendes (Portugal-Social Democratic Party), Wolfgang Schauble (Germany-Christian Democratic Union), Ian Duncan-Smith (UK-Conservative), Binyamin BenEliezer (Israel-Labour) and Simon Crean (Australia-Labor) are similar examples. They were leaders who came into their parties with moderate or weak standings within their own party and could not make inroads into the party’s momentarily weak electoral standing. They all found themselves caught up in a negative spiral, and all were ousted pre-emptively. Political events quickly overtake these leaders and few will willingly chose to cut their own leaderships short before they have had a chance to prove themselves (a chance not always awarded by their parties).

124 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

Once politically more efficacious leaders whose internal and/or external political capital is shrinking have more opportunity to resign before pressure mounts. A few like Canadian Liberal leader Pierre Trudeau will see the writing on the wall and choose to retire whilst still in reasonable political shape. Some like Barbados Labour Party leader and Prime Minister Owen Arthur wait until the evidence is clear (like a poor election result) before resigning voluntarily rather than face a slow decline and wait for the party to turn against them. Others will simply refuse to accept the new realities and more or less compel their parties to move decisively against them, as in the case of Canadian Progressive Conservative leader John Diefenbaker and, to some extent, Margaret Thatcher. With a political ‘loser’ in the leadership position, party and political pressure for replacement is very quick to follow. An interesting question is which of the leaders with a strong grip on only one of the two elements in our incumbency matrix is more likely to avoid quick and forced exits. The coded cases in the dataset indicate that for major parties, a lack of public popularity can rarely be compensated for by strong control over the party. ‘Oligarchs’ are more common and have a better survival rate in smaller parties, owing perhaps to the greater ease at which a leader can maintain personalistic control of party platform and apparatus. This is particularly so in parties at the far ends of the spectrum where ideological purity is deemed more important than electoral market share or government participation. For example, Alvaro Cunhal (PortugalCommunist Party) and Charilaos Florakis (Greece-KKE) maintained control over their far-left parties for decades seemingly unimpeded by a complete lack of electoral popularity. Conversely, in electorally successful but internally weak or divided major parties leaders appear to be more capable of survival, though only as long as they remain popular with the voting public. ‘Mavericks’ like Willy Brandt (Germany-SPD), Sonia Gandhi (India-Congress Party) and Junichiro Koizumi (Japan-LDP) challenged their parties’ traditional tenets and established elites. They made enemies within their parties and faced regular internal debates about their continued leadership. Yet they successfully deployed popular support as an aegis against internal enemies and potential challenges. In smaller, ideologically zealous anti-establishment parties, leaders face conformity pressures to be clearly seen to be ‘one of us’ (social psychologists refer to this as ‘relative prototypicality’, see Turner, Subasˇic´, and Reynolds, 2008; Subasˇic´ and Reynolds, this volume) and are less able to use broader popularity as a means of increasing their idiosyncrasy credit. As highlighted earlier, with our current dataset and coding we can only start to examine this particular proposition and some of its implications. We do find that the proposition is well supported by available cases, but overall the more interesting questions related to our matrix for incumbents lies with the more hybrid cases, and as such present an interesting area for further research.

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 125

Succession processes Here we want to investigate whether the dynamics of the succession process generated by the postures and behaviours of the main protagonists and their supporters themselves may have an influence on the fate of whoever ends up in the leadership position (it should be remembered that succession episodes may produce ‘non-successions’ as well, in which incumbents stare down their challengers or otherwise get reappointed).4 It seems plausible to assume that intensely competitive, secretive and vitriolic leadership campaigns leave deep wounds among the protagonists and their supporters and hardly send reassuring messages to members and voters alike. They are thus are more likely to result in continued leadership instability. In contrast, mutually respectful and more inclusive succession processes are more likely to provide firm and broad mandates for the resultant leader (cf. Cross and Blais, 2008; Denham and O’Hara, 2008; Kenig, 2009). Hence our third proposition: (3) The more conflictridden the succession process, the lower the likelihood of successful succession. An exemplary case that fits the bill entirely can be found in the Danish Conservative People’s Party (CPP). After the surprise resignation of CPP leader and prime minister Poul Schlüter in 1993, a power vacuum opened up within the party. Long-time rivals Justice Minister Hans Engell and Finance Minister Henning Dyremose staked their claim to the party leadership. Dyremose won, but the conflict between the opposing wings of the party continued to plague him. Within nine months Dyremose was toppled by Engell in a party room coup, after which he quit politics. The factional disputes within the party persisted however – Engell would maintain control for three years before he was himself compelled to resign after a drunk-driving incident in 1997. The race to choose his successor reignited the severe internal disputes of 1993, with Per Stig Møller narrowly triumphing. After five years of very public infighting the voters had lost confidence in the party, and at the 1998 Danish elections the CPP received their worst election result in 25 years. Internal disputes flared up once more in the wake of the elections, and factional opponent Pia Christmas-Møller replaced Per Stig Møller in 1998. Her own contested leadership lasted just over 18 months before a final contested leadership battle delivered Bendt Bendtsen to the top post. Bendtsen was finally successful in unifying the party and ending the factional politics which had destroyed the party’s public image and seen five leaders in six years. How typical is this case? As a proxy to coding the climate of the entire succession process, we assessed the degree of conflict in the chief triggers of succession. If the case was unclear or there remained argument as to what the true motivations for the succession were, it was left un-coded. Furthermore, in cases where it was difficult to establish a single trigger, a secondary trigger was added to try and capture that. The result is 452 cases where a trigger could be satisfactorily determined, using a 16-category coding grid, dichotomized for our present purposes. Under high-conflict triggers came: inter-personal rivalry, internal party discontent or factional intrigue, internal policy disputes, and

126 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat Table 7.5

Primary and secondary succession triggers Primary Triggers

Valid

Missing Total

Force Majeure Personal Electoral Mistake Party/Political Total System

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

65 103 175 34 65 442 73 515

12.6 20.0 34.0 6.6 12.6 85.8 14.2 100.0

14.7 23.3 39.6 7.7 14.7 100.0

14.7 38.0 77.6 85.3 100.0

Secondary Triggers

Valid

Missing Total

Force Majeure Personal Electoral Mistake Party/Political Total System

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

5 16 45 12 57 135 380 515

1.0 3.1 8.7 2.3 11.1 26.2 73.8 100.0

3.7 11.9 33.3 8.9 42.2 100.0

3.7 15.6 48.9 57.8 100.0

inter-coalition conflict. The other triggers (ill health, election losses, and so on) were classified as low conflict. Using this breakdown, conflict was the primary cause in 65 out 452 cases, and a secondary cause in 57 (see Table 7.5). Table 7.5 suggests that the correlation between high-conflict succession triggers and succession outcomes is weak. Descriptively, in the 89 valid cases of a conflict succession, 27 per cent of successors (24) lost office within two years, and on average served six years as leader. This compares with about 19 per cent of non-conflict successors (70 of 363) and an average of 7.5 years. The correlation between conflict and leader longevity is negative as predicted but small (Pearson’s R = –0.088, sig. p < 0.05). Looking at the differences in voting share under the next election, the 59 high-conflict successors who survived to the next election could expect on average a small but negative swing against them – about –0.34%, compared with +0.17% for low-conflict successors. Consistent with the correlation above, the distribution patterns are only slightly different – 58 per cent (34 of 59) of conflict successors suffered negative swings at their next election, compared with 49 per cent non-conflict successor (109 of 220). Consistent with the longevity finding, a slightly higher proportion of high-conflict successors lost office before facing an election than non-conflict successions (34% to 25%). Neither of these correlations is statistically significant, however. We then revisited incumbent exit modes

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 127

(see Proposition 2), expecting that forced or duress exits (by definition, highconflict affairs) would result in less successful successions than voluntary or involuntary exits. However, the dataset evidence for the conjecture is again weak and statistically insignificant. These results suggest that whilst leaders who come to office as the result of a high-conflict succession do face a moderately higher risk of being dumped in the very short term, in general their survival prospects do not deviate much from the mean. Only for in-government high-conflict successions, is the outlook really bleak (Blair to Brown comes to mind). For all other high-conflict successions, there is some element of risk as indicated by the higher proportion of very short-term leaders in the highconflict group, however since conflict here seems to be impacting longevity rather than election results, it seems more likely that the risk to highconflict successors comes from within their own parties. Having gained office in a high-conflict succession requires the new leader to be particularly competent at gaining the respect and soothing the wounds of his erstwhile internal opponents. Those who can not or will not are made to pay. High-conflict leadership successions may well lower the threshold for further challenges, especially for non-governing parties. In the dataset there are quite a few cases of ‘periods of instability’ where a number of shorter-term leaders with contested successions follow each other. The Australian Liberal and National parties cycled through a number of leaders each in the 1980s and early 1990s as they struggled to deal with the new role in opposition and their respective internal political conflicts came to dominate their operations. In the Israeli Labour Party the loss of government and the resignation of former PM Ehud Barak ignited a wave of internal political struggles that saw four leaders in six years, before Barak himself returned in attempt to restore the party’s fortunes. Thus conflict can definitely beget conflict, and this a risk that all parties face in the wake of high-conflict leadership battles. However, our figures suggest that if a leader can ride out the wave of party conflict and hold onto power beyond the critical first years of a contested succession, then their chances for success are not greatly different from their non-conflict successor counterparts. Conflicted successions do not necessarily lead to succession failure and voter backlash. Indeed, as Stark (1996) also suggests, a change of leader, even if the preceding removal and selection process has been acrimonious, is just as likely to deliver a revival of the party’s fortunes. For example, despite the very public and often bitter fashion in which they seized the leadership of their parties, Margaret Thatcher (UK-Conservative), Brian Mulroney (Canada-Progressive Conservative), and Paul Keating (Australia-Labor) all presided over impressive electoral victories at post-succession elections. Voters may punish continued disunity, but not necessary cathartic slaughter which produces a clear, undisputed new leader.

128 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

Conclusions: From explaining to assessing successions Succession planning remains one of the most difficult and poorly executed features of party procedure – a great deal of time and effort is invested into smoothing that process as much as possible, yet even the most extensively organized of them have had a tendency to go awry. In this chapter we have attempted to shed some light on the complex and often problematic dynamics of party leadership succession. We have sought to break some new ground in the comparative study of party leadership succession. Combining literature review, hypothesis formulation, dataset construction and case study analysis, we tracked the behavioural correlates of succession outcomes. Though explorative in our aims and methods, we have nonetheless identified a number of potentially important and counterintuitive aspects of the leadership succession process. For example, whilst we observe that the most popular choice for a successor is a ‘loyalist’ – someone with supportive views towards his or her predecessor and their party’s platform – their success in getting chosen does not translate into success with the public. Instead, those with clear reform agendas – the ‘reformers’ and ‘revolutionaries’ – seem to be the most successful types of leaders in terms of longevity and election results. Similarly, whilst many would expect that ‘disunity is death’ when it comes to internal leadership struggles, the fact remains that most contested or high-conflict successions do not result in any particular public backlash. The highest risk for people who snatch the leadership from the incumbent rather than wait to have it bestowed upon them in due course comes instead from within the party itself, where old wounds never quite heal. These findings allude to a remarkable divide between the needs and desires of party and wider public: two different constituencies that a leader must satisfy and yet seem to desire differing qualities from their leaders in certain contexts. As a result, political leaders engage in a delicate balancing act in order to survive and thrive. Though in some areas we suggest that public popularity necessarily trumps positioning within the party, it becomes obvious that maintaining both is needed in order to effectively lead. Whilst conventional party wisdom might identify the perfect successor as one who stresses continuity and loyalty with the former leader, has strong and abiding links within the party, and succeeds his predecessor unchallenged, this study suggests otherwise. It indicates that a maverick populist who emphasizes a clean break with party policy and takes down his predecessor in a party-room showdown might have just as much (indeed, if not more) chance of successfully leading the party into the future. The currently dominant institutional approaches to leadership succession do not fully analyse this important choice, except in general terms. They shed insufficient light on the strategic choices the party elites face at the impending exit of an incumbent leader. And they all but ignore the

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complex interplay between party-internal and wider public actors and arenas in which judgements about incumbent, aspiring and newly emerged leaders are being made. A key step forward would be to modify and re-test the propositions and inferences provided here on a more elaborate data set, and analyse more systematically than we have done here to what extent institutional variables at both the macro level (electoral and party system types) and the meso level (party rules and traditions of leader selection) mitigate the choices of key protagonists in succession processes. In addition, further study of contextual and temporal factors in successions is needed to better explain the results found here. Beyond the nitty-gritty of empirical theory-building, future research may also start to address the normative dimension of leadership succession: how do we know a good one when we see one? Which criteria should be applied to differentiate between successful, or at least less painful, cases from complete disasters? As a first stab at future research, we suggest that there are three types of impact domains. First of all, what is the impact on policy? It is not self-evident that leadership changes make a substantive difference for the direction of party or government policy or lead to more effective party and public policies (Bunce, 1981; Bunce and Roeder, 1986; Punnett, 1992; Boyne and Dahya, 2002). After all, many scholars argue that human factors in politics pale in comparison to the force of macro economic realities, complex institutions and trans-national mega trends. For those who beg to disagree with this determinism, leadership transitions are a perfect opportunity to test their hypothesis. Can differences in policy preferences be detected between the outgoing and the incoming leader? Does the new leader place new issues on the policy agenda? Does he put forward new solutions for old policy problems? Does the new leader succeed in gaining political acceptance for his policy preferences? And if his policies are put into effect, does this lead to different and more strongly supported social outcomes? Secondly, one can question how the popularity of outgoing and newly incumbent leaders and their parties evolves before and after the leadership change. Ideally the new leader manages to gain so much support for himself and his policies that he supersedes his predecessor, yet without completely destroying his predecessor’s reputation. The newcomer must build sufficient momentum without having to resort posthumous attacks on his predecessor in order to gain stature by comparison. A new leader that does not succeed immediately in matching the popularity of his predecessor is not necessarily politically dead, but he is handicapped. Even if he manages to gain policy successes and develops a distinctive political style he will have to fight the increasingly mythical memory of his predecessor. Personal ratings aside, the bottom line that many of the people keeping leaders in power will apply to assessing the impact of a succession episode, is the party’s position in the polls or – if they are wise – its de facto election results following the conclusion of a succession episode.

130 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat

The final criterion to assess the success of leadership transitions focuses upon the legitimacy of the regime. What does the leader succession do to public trust in politics and to the legitimacy of the government? How do citizens value the rules of the political system before and after the succession episode? It is plausible to expect that a sudden and premature departure of an incumbent leader, or open warfare between incumbent and aspiring leaders not only do damage to the political stature of these people and their party, but also contribute to a decline of trust in politics as a whole. The legitimacy criterion is particularly relevant when leader successions coincide with changes in the ruling political coalition, or the political regime as a whole. Political regime changes have occurred frequently in Latin America and Eastern Europe. New leaders, some of whom were affiliated closely with the old regime, had to build support not just for themselves, but also for the new, democratic political order. A comparison of some of these cases suggests that the identity and style of individual leaders can in fact have a systemic effect: moral authorities as Mandela in South Africa and Havel in the Czech Republic succeeded considerably better to strengthen democracy in their countries than leaders who were survivors from the old, discredited regime (Kane, 2001). The three types of criteria are largely independent. This means that one and the same case of leader succession can be judged a failure from one perspective and at the same time a success from some of the others. But these criteria are not equally important in every situation of leader transition. In the established democracies of Western Europe and North America the legitimacy of the political regime is so self-evident that it is hardly useful to evaluate leadership changes on this basis. It is more sensible to focus on the popularity and policy success criteria. In new, less institutionalized political orders such as the Central and Eastern European democracies, the ‘diffuse support’ (Easton, 1965) criterion becomes much more relevant: new incumbents of high offices are not just expected to bring peace and prosperity, they should also bestow authority on their office and their political system as a whole. Whether we find any succession effects on policy, organizations and institutions remains an open question. Some British research on the effects of party leadership changes suggests that it is wise not to overstate the expected impact of successions, and not to assume that because they are such risky, volatile occurrences for the people involved their institutional effects are more bound to be negative than positive (Punnett, 1992; Stark, 1996).

Notes 1 Australia, Austria, Bahamas, Barbados, Botswana, Canada, Denmark, Germany, Greece, India, Ireland, Israel, Jamaica, Japan, Luxemburg, Malta, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway, Portugal, Spain, Sweden, Trinidad and Tobago, and the United Kingdom.

Matthew Laing and Paul ’t Hart 131 2 Using newspapers, party histories, national political histories, almanacs and other sources; a continuous line of political party leaders was established for each country for each of the major parties and a number of the larger minor parties. For each leader, a variety of variables were coded: age, sex, elections fought, electoral results whilst leader, time as leader, time as head of government (if at all), and so on. Additionally, for each leader a number of more interpretive variables were coded corresponding to the nature of their transition out of power, including the type of exit (e.g. forced out, resigned), trigger for exit (e.g. illness, poor election results), and attitude of successor to predecessor. Naturally for each of these interpretive variables, some judgement has been exercised on the part of the coder. However the parameters for the interpretive variables were clearly defined, and in all cases the designation of these interpretive variables is been well supported by the source material. For unclear cases or cases with insufficient source material, the coding has been left blank. 3 Due to the persistent presence of outliers amongst the categories, a 5 per cent trimmed mean is going to be referred to more commonly than the true mean as a way of presenting a more robust estimator. 4 This presents a baffling problem to students of succession: identifying and assessing ‘non-successions’. The problem is specifically that the category of ad hoc, endogenous triggers is difficult to pin down. When is party discontent with a leader strong enough to qualify as a genuine episode in which succession becomes a real possibility? When are known rivals/revolutionaries among the field of possible aspirants (or their supporters) really seriously trying to put together a take-over attempt? We can only know about cases that get into the press and/or lead to formal party room or conference votes on the leadership. Beneath those, there is often a substantial, yet indeterminate number of instances of covert agitation, polling and weighing of options that may not trigger formal decisions to continue the incumbent but do serve to put pressure on the incumbent. Are these to be coded as ‘non-successions’ or are they merely pinpricks in a longer term attrition strategy on the part of an aspirant and/or discontented party elites?

Bibliography Aarts, K., Blais, A. and Schmitt, H. (eds) (2010) Political Leaders and Democratic Elections (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Alderman, R. K. and Smith, M. J. (1990) ‘Can British prime ministers be given the push by their parties?’, Parliamentary Affairs, 43(3), 260–72. Andrews, J. and Jackman, R. (2008) ‘If winning isn’t everything, why do they keep score? Consequences of electoral performance for party leaders’, British Journal of Political Science, 38(4), 657–75. Bennis, W. G. (1989) On Becoming a Leader (London: Century Business). Blondel, J. and Thibault, J.-L. (eds) (2009) Political Leadership, Parties and Citizens: The Personalisation of Leadership (London: Routledge). Boyne, G. and Dahya, J. (2002) ‘Executive succession and the performance of public organizations’, Public Administration, 80(1), 179–200. Bunce, V. (1981) Do New Leaders Make a Difference?: Executive Succession and Public Policy Under Capitalism and Socialism (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Bunce, V. and Roeder, P. (1986) ‘The effects of leadership succession in the Soviet Union’, American Political Science Review, 80(1), 215–24.

132 Seeking and Keeping the Hot Seat Cross, W. and Blais, A. (2008) ‘Who selects the party leader? A cross-national analysis’. Paper presented at the 2008 Elections, Public Opinion and Parties (EPOP) Annual Conference. Davis, J. W. (1998) Leadership Selection in Six Western Democracies (Westport: Greenwood Press). Denham, A. and O’Hara, K. (2008) Democratizing Conservative Leadership Selection: From Grey Suits to Grass Roots (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Easton, D. (1965) A Systems Analysis of Political Life (Chicago: Chicago University Press). Heppell, T. (2008) Choosing the Tory Leader: Conservative Party Leadership Elections from Heath to Cameron (London: Taurus). Heppell, T. (2010) Choosing the Labour Leader: Labour Party Leadership elections from Wilson to Brown (London: Taurus). Kane, J. (2001) The Politics of Moral Capital (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Katz, R. S. and Mair, P. (1995) ‘Changing models of party organization and party democracy: The emergence of the cartel party’, Party Politics, 1(1), 5–28. Kenig, O. (2009) ‘Democratization of party leadership selection: Do wider selectorates produce more competitive contests?’, Electoral Studies, 28(2), 240–7. King, A. (ed.) (2002) Personalities and the Outcomes of Democratic Elections (Oxford: Oxford University Press). LeDuc, L. (2001) ‘Democratizing party leadership selection’, Party Politics, 7(3), 323–41. Lijphart, A. (1999) Patterns of Democracy (New Haven: Yale University Press). Marsh, M. (1993) ‘Selecting party leaders in the Republic of Ireland: Taking the lid off party politics’, European Journal of Political Research, 24(3), 295–316. Panebianco, A. (1988) Political Parties: Organization and Power (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Punnett, R. M. (1992) Selecting the Party Leader: Britain in Comparative Perspective (London: Harvester Wheatsheaf). Quinn, T. (2005) ‘Leasehold or freehold? Leader eviction rules in the British Conservative and Labour parties’, Political Studies, 53(4), 793–815. Seldon, A. (1998) Major: A Political Life (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson). Stark, L. (1996) Choosing a Leader: Party Leadership Contests in Britain from Macmillan to Blair (London: Macmillan). Turner, J., Subasˇic´, E. and Reynolds, K. (2008) ‘Identity confers power: The new view of leadership in social psychology’, in P. ’t Hart and J. Uhr (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practices (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 57–72. Weller, P. (1983) ‘The vulnerability of prime ministers: A comparative perspective’, Parliamentary Affairs, 36(1), 96–117. Weller, P. (1985) First Among Equals (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Weller, P. (1994) ‘Party rules and the dismissal of prime ministers: Comparative perspectives from Britain, Canada and Australia’, Parliamentary Affairs, 47(2), 133–43.

8 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases* William Cross and André Blais

Introduction Political party leaders have long been recognized as central figures in Westminster parliamentary democracies. In the legislative arena they fill the leading roles of Prime Minister and Leader of the Official Opposition (Weller, 1985). Parties hold a privileged place in parliamentary elections and their leaders are the central figures in these campaigns (McAllister, 1996). Similarly, leaders exercise considerable control over important intra party decision-making (Heidar and Koole, 2000). While leaders have always played a central role in modern parliamentary democracies, observers have identified an increase in their authority in all three realms – legislative, electoral and intra party (Poguntke and Webb, 2005). Given this key role of party leaders it is not surprising that in recent years scholars have paid close attention to the manner in which leaders are selected. Many have observed an increase in the influence attributed to rank-and-file party members at the expense of party elites and particularly the parliamentary party (Cross, 1996; Carty and Blake, 1999; LeDuc, 2001; Kenig, 2009; Cross and Blais, forthcoming). Coupled with this observation of ‘democratization’ of leadership selection through expansion of the selectorate has been the charge that this reform works to increase the authority of the leader. This argument, made by Mair (1994), is that diffusing the authority to select leaders to a larger, less proximate and more disparate body than a party’s parliamentary group makes it more difficult for anyone to hold leaders accountable and potentially to remove them from office. Beyond these general characterizations, and with few notable exceptions (Weller, 1994; Courtney, 1995; Quinn, 2005; Bynander and ’t Hart, 2007), little has been written focusing on the ability of parties to hold their leaders to account and specifically to remove them. In this chapter we consider the ways in which contemporary political parties are able to hold their leaders accountable and whether and how they can remove them. In doing so we argue that party rules matter 133

134 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

insofar as they influence the relative security of a party leader, determine who he or she is accountable to, and thus affect their relations with their party colleagues. We present a typology of party leadership accountability that is based on three characteristics that define a party’s approach to leadership review and removal. The first variable is whether a party has a formal mechanism that allows it to remove a no longer wanted leader. The second and third concern the ease with which a party can remove a leader by considering who has the removal authority and when that authority can be exercised. Our cases include parties from the five principal Westminster countries: Australia, Canada, the Republic of Ireland, New Zealand and the United Kingdom. Because we are interested in the balance of authority between the parliamentary and extra parliamentary parties we restrict our analysis to the 22 parties that finished in the top five, in terms of seats won, in either of the two most recent elections to the national lower house (as of 31 December 2007). In the section considering leadership transitions we include four additional parties that have merged to form a new party that is captured in our sample.1 Thus, we examine both parties that are in and out of government and include in our sample leaders who are serving as Prime Minister and others who are in opposition. As illustrated below, party rules, along with the broader mandate they enjoy, typically, though not always, provide prime ministers with more security in their position as party leader. In the Westminster systems it is easy to identify a party leader, as there is unity between the leadership of the parliamentary and organizational, or extra parliamentary, party. In all parties, the parliamentary leader is the uncontested head of the party and maintains authority both in election campaigns and in the legislature, the only exceptions being the New Zealand Green and Maori parties, with male and female co-leaders sharing responsibility for the parliamentary and extra-parliamentary wings. Both secondary and primary data sources are used. We have systematically reviewed both contemporary and historic party statutes, newspaper accounts of leadership transitions, and the literature on parties and leaders’ biographies. We have also conducted a series of approximately 40 semistructured elite interviews, in all five countries, with party officials, academic experts and political journalists. Current and former party leaders, members of parliament, party secretaries and senior party staff were among those interviewed.2 In order to preserve confidentiality individual interviewees are not identified.

Reasons for leader exits We begin our analysis with an examination of the 110 cases of leadership transition in 26 parties occurring between 1965 and 2007. We consider

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the circumstances under which these leaders left office and classify each departure of a leader into one of six categories: resigned voluntarily; resigned under pressure; resigned because of a single, specific disagreement with the party; leadership ended because the party no longer exists (typically a merger creating a new party); death of the incumbent; and the incumbent being formally removed. It is easy to assign cases to each of the last four categories and to identify those that belong in one of the first two. Significant difficulty occasionally arises in determining when a resignation is voluntary and when it results from pressure placed on the leader to leave. In both instances the resignation is voluntary, as the leader is not compelled to resign. Nonetheless, it is useful to differentiate between cases when the leader essentially retires because of a wish not to continue and those cases in which a leader quits largely because of a realization that there is significant opposition to their carrying on as leader and that they are likely to face a formal leadership challenge that they may not win. There is always a colleague who fancies the leadership and would prefer the incumbent leave to open up a shot at the top job. When this pressure reaches the point of pushing the incumbent out is a judgement call that we are forced to make, and in doing so we draw upon interviews with country experts. It is important to bear in mind that the number of cases where this is a real issue is limited and thus discretion is restricted to a small number of cases. If we have erred it is in the direction of categorizing cases as the leader leaving under his/her own discretion despite being under some party pressure to do so. The most compelling finding is that leaders rarely leave willingly. Of our 110 cases, only 26 can be classified as retiring voluntarily. In 55 cases the leader resigned under significant pressure and in 17 others the leader was formally removed. The remaining cases include four deaths, five parties that merged with others thus ending the incumbent’s tenure, and three cases where leaders resigned because of a specific, fundamental difference with their party often over an organizational question. In 20 cases the leader was prime minister at the time of departure. These leaders are significantly less likely to be ‘forced’ from the job than are their opposition colleagues. While two-thirds of opposition leaders were either formally removed or resigned under significant pressure, the same is true for half of retiring prime ministers (11 of 20). We find three cases of sitting prime ministers formally removed from their party leadership: Robert Hawke (Australia Labor), John Gorton (Australia Liberals) and Margaret Thatcher (UK Conservatives).3 Eight other sitting Prime Ministers resigned in the face of significant party opposition to their continuing as leader, and several of these faced a high likelihood that they would lose a forthcoming confidence vote. These include Jim Bolger (New Zealand National), Charles Haughey (Ireland’s Fianna Fáil), Jack Lynch (Ireland’s Fianna Fáil), Albert Reynolds (Ireland’s Fianna Fáil), David Lange (New Zealand Labour), Geoffrey Palmer (NZ Labour),

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Jean Chrétien (Canadian Liberal) and Tony Blair (UK Labour). Two others died in office and seven retired voluntarily. While there are cases of leaders being formally removed in all countries, the incidence of this varies dramatically. In both Canada and Ireland only one party leader was formally removed during the more than four decades studied (John Diefenbaker from the Canadian Progressive Conservatives and John Bruton from Ireland’s Fine Gael) and three in the United Kingdom (all in the Conservative Party: Edward Heath, Thatcher and Ian Duncan Smith). This represents less than 5 per cent of Canadian and Irish leadership transitions and slightly less than one in seven in the British case. This can be contrasted with the Australian and New Zealand cases. In these countries, more than one-quarter of leaders have been formally removed from office. In Australia this is the case for seven of 28 leaders and in New Zealand for five of 17. All three of the Australian parties in our sample have formally removed leaders while in New Zealand this has been restricted to the two largest parties: National and Labour. Two of the three ousted prime ministers led Australian parties. Given the findings that leaders rarely leave fully of their own accord, and the difference in exit patterns among countries with generally similar, though not identical, institutional contexts, it is important to consider the rules surrounding leadership removal. As Weller (1994: 133) suggests in the context of prime ministerial dismissal, ‘rules can determine politics’. We find that parties take a wide range of approaches relating to leadership accountability and removal. We focus on three questions: does a mechanism exist to formally remove a leader? If so, how can the leader be removed? And, finally, who has the authority to remove the leader? The answers to these questions significantly impact on a leader’s security in office and influence his/her relationship with both the parliamentary caucus and extra parliamentary membership. As Weller (1983: 99) suggests in his examination of the vulnerability of prime ministers to internal revolt in the United Kingdom, Canada and Australia, their ‘similar parliamentary system, similar constitutional assumptions, similar cabinet principles and prime ministers with similar … powers’ make it ‘easier to see how procedures and institutions contribute to degrees of vulnerability’.

Can party leaders be removed? Beginning in the mid-1960s many parties began adopting formal rules governing leadership selection and, either at the same time or shortly thereafter, many adopted rules and norms for the removal of leaders. Prior to this period, there often existed no formal mechanism for the review and removal of the leader. In some it was assumed that the parliamentary caucus could remove the leader since they had chosen him, though this authority was not widely used and in many parties there was an assump-

William Cross and André Blais 137

tion that leaders could not be forced from office (see Weller, 1983: 97). More often, caucus and extra parliamentary party pressure was brought to encourage a leader to leave. This was the case particularly in parties where there were no formal rules for leadership selection and thus no group that could claim legitimate authority to remove the leader. An example of this is the British Conservative party in which until 1965 leaders were said to emerge through the party’s ‘magic circle’ which essentially meant secretive consultation among a few party elites, and, when the party was in government, the Crown (Alderman, 1999). As the parliamentary caucus did not have the authority to choose a leader it could not legitimately claim removal authority. This situation changed when the party moved to leadership selection via a formal vote of the parliamentary caucus which then gave the same body legitimacy in claiming the right to remove the leader. The Canadian case provides examples of parties with formal selection rules that did not have any provision for removal. Leaders in Canada have been chosen by the extra parliamentary party since 1919 (Courtney, 1995), yet no removal mechanisms existed until the late 1960s. As late as the mid1960s, Liberal leader Lester Pearson correctly argued that ‘the leader deposes himself,’ as no other group has the authority to remove him (Engelman and Schwartz, 1975: 243). In the case of the Progressive Conservatives this led to a protracted standoff in which the extra parliamentary party claimed the removal authority and the incumbent leader, John Diefenbaker, argued that they did not have this power. The extra parliamentary party ultimately prevailed, removing Diefenbaker in 1967 and in the process claiming for itself the power to remove future leaders. We find that all of our parties now incorporate some formal process that allows for the removal of an unwanted leader. However, in two cases, the Canadian Liberals and Conservatives, this ability only exists when the party is in opposition. In both parties, when the leader is serving as Prime Minister, there is no formal ability for either the parliamentary or the extra parliamentary party to remove him/her. This is a meaningful exception as one or the other of these parties’ leader has served as prime minister for the country’s entire history. In the other 20 parties leaders can be removed both while in government and in opposition, though several make removal of a prime minister more difficult than that of an opposition leader. Prime ministers have often argued that their mandate comes from general election voters and thus they should not be removable by an intra party revolt (for example Thatcher in 1990 and Australia’s Rudd in 2010). While we still find some degree of deference towards prime ministers it is only in the two parties mentioned above that they are exempt from the possibility of formal removal. Other parties, such as Labour and the Liberal Democrats in the UK and Fine Gael in Ireland, make it somewhat more difficult to remove a party leader serving as PM (or Taoiseach) but do allow for the possibility.

138 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

How can leaders be removed? We find three general ways for leaders to be removed from their position: expiry of a fixed term, failure to win a prescribed confidence vote, and the passing of a spontaneous motion to remove the leader. Each of these is considered below. Fixed leadership terms One of the key characteristics distinguishing democracies from other political systems is that leaders do not serve indefinitely but, rather, periodically require endorsement from their voters in order to maintain their position. Powell (1982: 3) has suggested that one of the necessary conditions for democracy is that ‘leaders are elected at regular intervals’, and Massicotte and Blais (2000: 308) suggest that ‘all elections are for a specific term’. Given this, we are surprised to find that a majority of parties continue to select their leaders for indefinite terms. As illustrated in Table 8.1, in fewer than half of our cases (nine of 22) do leadership terms automatically expire. In none of these cases is the leader prohibited from seeking additional terms and in many the norm is for the leader to be re-elected. When there are fixed leadership terms they range in length from one to five years. For example, in the UK Labour party, when in opposition, leadership elections take place annually at the time of each party conference. Would be challengers to the incumbent need only collect a requisite number of caucus signatures in order to trigger a full leadership contest via the party’s electoral college mechanism. Similarly, when the New Zealand Maori party was formed in 2005, its rules required leadership contests at each annual party ‘hui’ or conference (this rule was subsequently changed so that elections are now scheduled to be held once every three years). At the outer limit, in terms of length of tenure, are leaders of the Irish Labour Party, who serve five year terms with the ability to stand for re-election. Several parties, particularly those in which the parliamentary party chooses the leader, tie the term of office to the electoral cycle. This is the case in many Australian and New Zealand parties. For example in the New Zealand Labour party, automatic leadership elections are held at the first caucus meeting in the year prior to a scheduled election. Others, including Australia’s Labor, Liberal and National parties, hold leadership contests at the first meeting of the parliamentary party following each general election, essentially attaching a three year term to the leadership position with the possibility for re-election. While the mechanism and timing varies among these parties, the presence of a fixed term ensures that at some point a party can rid itself of an unwanted leader simply by not re-electing him/her. Specified terms can have two important effects – one potentially increasing the security of an incumbent leader and the second somewhat negating this effect. First, they

William Cross and André Blais 139 Table 8.1

Methods by which party leaders may be removed (N = 22)

Fixed term Australia Liberals National Labor New Zealand Labour National ACT Green Maori NZ First United Future United Kindom Labour (oppos) (gov’t) Conservatives Lib Dems (oppos) (gov’t) Ireland Labour Fianna Fáil Fine Gael (oppos) (gov’t) Prog. Dems Greens

3 years* 3 years* 3 years*

Spontaneous review X X X

3 years* X

X X X

X 3 years X X 1 year + X X X

5 years*

5 years X X 5 years*

Canada Liberals (oppos) (gov’t) Conservatives (oppos) (gov’t) New Democrats Bloc Québécois Totals

Automatic periodic review

X X X X X X

X X X X 9

8

15

(for each column total a party is counted once, not separately for when in opposition and government.) *these are tied to the electoral cycle, thus the term may be shortened in the event of an early election. + the UK Labour party, when in government, does not provide for an automatic review vote, but as described above provides annual possibility for a leadership contest to be launched.

140 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

can provide incumbent leaders with security during the course of their term, as they sometimes argue that those wishing to see them removed should wait until the end of the term and raise their challenge then. The second effect is that the presence of regularly scheduled contests provides legitimacy for a challenge at the end of the leadership term without the appearance of an ‘insurrection’ against an incumbent. The first effect is also diminished by the fact that, as described below, the existence of a fixed term typically does not prevent the bringing of a spontaneous challenge. Thus while the leader may claim the moral authority to lead during his term in office, mechanisms exist, and are often used, to remove him/her before the term ends. This is particularly the case when the parliamentary party holds the removal power. Scheduled confidence votes Many parties without fixed terms require that their leaders periodically receive a vote of confidence in order to remain in their position. These vary in the form of the question asked from whether there is confidence in the current leader to whether there is desire for a new leadership contest. The result is the same in either case – a leader losing such a vote must either stand in a new election or leave the leadership position. These cases are similar to fixed terms in that the leader cannot stay in office without an indication of support from their electorate. None of the parties with fixed terms require that leaders face scheduled confidence votes during their prescribed term. Eight of the other 13 parties do require them. While similar in effect, these differ from fixed terms in that there is not a contest and thus there is no need for someone to step forward and offer a challenge to the incumbent. The vote is a straight thumbs up or down on the current leader. In many parties these opportunities for removal votes are held once per electoral cycle, often at the first opportunity following a general election. This is the case in New Zealand National, Fine Gael and the Canadian Liberal and Conservative parties when in opposition. The review takes place more frequently (every one or two years) in the Canadian New Democrats and Bloc Québécois and New Zealand Greens as leadership confidence votes in these parties are automatically on the agenda at every party conference. As illustrated in Table 8.1, there are five parties in which leaders do not require an indication of support in order to remain in office (either through re-election or winning a confidence vote). This category includes both small parties and large governing ones: Fianna Fáil in Ireland, the Conservatives in the United Kingdom, and, in New Zealand, United Future, ACT and New Zealand First. Five other parties have different rules depending upon whether they are in government or opposition. In each case these parties have attempted to make their leaders more secure while in government by either eliminating

William Cross and André Blais 141

the ability to remove them or making it more difficult to do so. Fine Gael leaders, when in opposition, are subject to a confidence vote following each general election while no such automatic vote is held when the party is in government. In UK Labour, when in opposition, leaders are subject to re-election at the time of each annual conference. In government, removal of leaders is much more difficult. While they can be removed, the bar is set high requiring both the signed support of 20 per cent of MPs for an alternative candidate and a majority vote of annual conference delegates supporting a new leadership election. The UK Liberal Democrats proviso for a five year fixed term for leaders includes the caveat that a term will not expire while the party is serving in government. Thus, including the Canadian Liberals and Conservatives, we find that in ten of 22 cases, leaders (sometimes only while in government) can serve indefinitely without need of any periodic endorsement from their party. Leadership politics in parties with regular review votes have similar dynamics to those with fixed terms in that leaders often argue that challenges brought at other times should be put off until the scheduled review vote, and disgruntled party members are guaranteed an opportunity to express their displeasure with the leader. We do find that when the review authority lies with the parliamentary party regularly scheduled reviews do not limit their ability, or willingness, to bring spontaneous challenges. Spontaneous leadership challenges The third removal method is the ability for a group within the party to bring a spontaneous challenge to the leader. Typically, this category includes cases of the parliamentary party being able to bring either a confidence or ‘spill’ motion against an incumbent leader at any time. A spill motion essentially declares the leadership vacant and, if passed, results in a new leadership contest. As illustrated in Table 8.1, the existence of a fixed term in office, or of a regularly scheduled review vote, does not necessarily prevent efforts to remove a leader at an earlier time. We find that in a majority of our cases, 15 of 22, leaders are subject to removal at any time. Most cases of leaders being removed by their party have occurred through a spontaneous challenge – even when the rules provide for fixed terms and regular review votes. In most of these parties, the possibility of spontaneous removal is through a vote of the parliamentary party. In all but one case in which the parliamentary party has the removal authority it is not restrained in terms of when it can exercise it. The one exception is Fine Gael in which a leader who survives a confidence motion is immune from further challenge for a period of six months. The intent of this provision is to provide some stability within the party. Parties allowing for spontaneous removal generally do not distinguish between whether or not the party is in government.

142 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

Spontaneous challenges often materialize very quickly. We find cases of incumbent leaders having no knowledge of a brewing insurrection until the confidence motion is brought in the party room or until just prior to the caucus meeting. Surprise is often a desired tactic of the rebels as it denies the incumbent opportunity to organize and rally supporters (see discussion below for an example). Parties that have vested the removal authority more clearly with the extra parliamentary party, typically in the party conference, provide opportunities for removal only at limited, prescribed times. This is because the vote generally takes place at the party conference which is set for a specified time. The only exceptions are two now defunct Canadian parties, the Alliance and the Progressive Conservatives, in which the extra parliamentary party had the ability to bring forward the leadership review vote in advance of a scheduled party conference. In both cases the threshold required to do so was an indication of support for an early vote from a significant number of constituency party associations. Even in these cases, however, it would in all likelihood have taken a minimum of several months for the party to organize the vote among the extra parliamentary members (the provision was never successfully used in either party). This can be contrasted with the ability of MPs to bring a non-confidence motion and have it voted on either immediately or within days. In cases where the extra parliamentary party has the removal authority, one result can be leadership struggles playing out over long periods of time as leaders face revolt from within the party but their opponents have no immediate opportunity to remove them. A common result is that embattled leaders hang on in the face of widespread opposition in the parliamentary, and sometimes rank-and-file, membership knowing that they cannot be formally removed until a set date. In the end, these leaders tend to remain in the leadership until the review opportunity is imminent before announcing their retirement plans (see discussion below for examples). Another important difference in method is whether an alternative leader must be named prior to launching an effort to remove an incumbent. This difference is manifested in rules that either allow for a discrete review or removal of the incumbent versus those that require dissenters to spark a full blown leadership contest. The effect of fixed terms and spontaneous challenges essentially is to require a challenger to emerge to confront the incumbent, whether in a party room vote or a universal membership ballot. We can contrast these with automatic review votes that simply ask whether the leader maintains the confidence of those voting. If the leader has lost confidence then a full contest ensues. ‘Spill’ motions brought in the party room are similar in that they do not require the naming of an alternative leader. These mechanisms do not require that a caucus colleague formally stand against the incumbent and in doing so risk career retribution should the challenge fail.

William Cross and André Blais 143

Who can remove the leader? Today, formal involvement of the extra parliamentary party in leadership politics is becoming the norm. While the parliamentary caucus selected leaders in the vast majority of our parties well into the latter half of the 20th century, they retain the full authority to do so in only eight of our 22 cases, which are mostly found in Australia and New Zealand (Cross and Blais, forthcoming). We do not, however, find a shift of the same magnitude in terms of who has the authority to remove the leader. We restrict our analysis to which party group has the authority to cause an Table 8.2

Who can remove the leader?

Parl. caucus Australia Liberals Nationals Labor

X X X

New Zealand Labour National ACT

X X X

Green NZ First United Future United Kindom Labour (gov’t) (oppos) Conservatives Lib Dems Ireland Labour Fianna Fáil Fine Gael Prog. Dems Greens Canada Liberals (oppos) Conservatives (oppos) New Democrats Bloc Québécois Totals

Party conference

Party committee

X

X

Either the parl. caucus or constituencies

Party member

X X X + X

X

X X X X X X

X

X

11 exclusive 2 shared

X X X 4 exclusive 1 shared

1 exclusive 2 shared

1 exclusive 1 shared

1 exclusive

(+When UK Labour is in opposition, there is an automatic opportunity for a contest at each annual conference which is triggered by a challenger reaching a required threshold of support from the parliamentary caucus (essentially a requirement of candidacy); there is, however, no opportunity to remove the leader between conferences).

144 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

unscheduled leadership contest, either by voting no confidence in an incumbent leader or voting in the affirmative when asked if a leadership contest should be held, in either a scheduled or spontaneous review vote. All but one of our parties provide for the possibility of this occurring. The only exception is in the NZ Maori party where there are no rules allowing for removal of leaders during their three year term (as discussed above, in some other parties the authority only exists when in opposition). Table 8.2 indicates who has the authority to remove an incumbent leader in each party. In slightly more than half of our cases (11 of 21) the situation is clear as the parliamentary caucus retains the sole and unencumbered authority to remove the leader. In these cases, there is no formal role for the extra parliamentary party in deciding whether a leader remains in the job. This category includes three parties in which rank-and-file party members participate in the selection of leaders. While the UK Conservatives and Ireland’s Fine Gael and Progressive Democrats provide a significant role for members in leadership selection, there is no parallel authority for removal.4 This potentially creates a situation of conflict between the parliamentary party and the grassroots membership as MPs can vote out a leader chosen by the party’s members. We find one case of this occurring with the UK Conservative membership choosing Ian Duncan Smith in 2001 who was subsequently removed by the parliamentary party in 2003 before contesting a single general election. In one additional party, the UK Liberal Democrats, the party caucus can remove the leader as can the extra parliamentary party, and each is able to do so without the cooperation of the other. At the other end of the spectrum, we find only one case of a party that provides for a ballot of its members to be held for a leadership confidence or removal vote – the Canadian Liberal party, and this only occurs after elections in which the party does not form the government. In the remaining parties, the removal authority rests with either the party conference or some combination of the parliamentary and extra parliamentary parties. Party conferences have full and sole removal authority in four parties: the Canadian Conservative, Bloc Québécois and New Democratic parties and the New Zealand Greens. In three parties removal of the party leader requires action of more than one branch of the party. In UK Labour both the parliamentary party and the conference must act to spark an unscheduled leadership contest (the opportunity only exists in government). In the Irish Green Party a leader can be removed by the National Executive Committee only if it receives a request to do so from either 12 local constituency groups or half of the party’s TDs and local authority members. In New Zealand ACT, only the party’s Management Board can remove the leader. However, it can only act after receiving a request to do so from a majority of the parliamentary caucus. In Ireland’s Labour party, the party’s Central Council (comprised of representatives

William Cross and André Blais 145

from each constituency party and the party’s executive committee) can, by a two-thirds vote, remove the leader. Thus, while the parliamentary caucus acting on its own can remove the leader in 12 of 21 cases, only in six of the 21 is it necessary for there to be a signal of support from the party’s grassroots members either through a vote at party conference, support from constituency associations or a ballot of members. This is the case for the New Zealand Green, UK Labour and the four Canadian parties. In the remaining three cases (Irish Greens and Labour, and New Zealand ACT) the rules provide the possibility for leaders to be removed without the membership party being involved through various combinations of elected officials and central party elites working together. It is important to note that even in cases in which there is no formal role ascribed to the extra parliamentary parties members often do have influence in leadership politics. Members of the parliamentary party depend on the support of local party activists for reselection as candidates for the next election, and for the financial and volunteer support necessary to mount a vigorous local campaign. While this varies somewhat depending on the type of electoral system in place and the degree of decentralization in candidate selection, members of the caucus in all countries reported in interviews that they consult with their local activists in making these decisions. In several cases MPs recounted being under significant pressure from their local supporters to take a particular position in a leadership struggle, often with the threat of a reselection fight and or withholding of campaign resources if they did not act accordingly. Two high profile cases of the extra parliamentary party exercising influence on the parliamentary party’s efforts to remove leaders are those of Charles Haughey in Fianna Fáil and Bill Rowling in New Zealand Labour. It is well documented that Rowling’s leadership of the New Zealand Labour party in 1980 was saved by pressure from the extra parliamentary party. Facing a challenge in the party room, Rowling appeared headed to certain defeat in the caucus vote before the extra parliamentary party was activated on his behalf. The party president, Jim Anderton, fought a spirited battle for Rowling. Faxes and phone calls from constituency activists filled the offices of targeted MPs, some of whom feared for their reselection. Many observers credit the organizing of the extra parliamentary party with tipping the balance in Rowling’s one vote victory (see, for example, Henderson, 1981: 25). Party activists were also very involved in the leadership struggles surrounding Charles Haughey in Fianna Fáil. While the party rules provided no role for the extra parliamentary membership, Haughey worked endlessly to cultivate support at the constituency level and encouraged party members to contact TDs and express their support for him. When faced with a leadership challenge, Haughey’s supporters in the constituencies were known to

146 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

organize phone calls to TDs on his behalf and on occasion to travel to Dublin and march in front of Leinster House. While many in the party objected to what they viewed as outsider interference in the work of the parliamentary party, Haughey openly encouraged the involvement of these activists and regularly insisted on open votes in the party room so that TDs could be held accountable by their local party members. The leadership struggles during Haughey’s tenure were quite rancorous and pressures on TDs from outside the party caucus were often direct and occasionally threatening. One former senior cabinet member recounted an occasion in which the brother of a TD received phone calls from four of his firm’s five largest customers promising to cut off business with him if his brother did not support Haughey. On another occasion, a riled up activist assaulted a TD, who had opposed Haughey, outside the Dail. Similarly, when the removal authority lies with the extra parliamentary party, this does not absolve leaders from maintaining support from their parliamentary colleagues. This has been most apparent in the Canadian cases in which removal authority has been vested in the extra parliamentary party for several decades. While embattled leaders have regularly argued that their parliamentary colleagues lack the authority to remove them from office, leaders lacking support in the party room inevitably succumb to such pressure, as an unsupportive parliamentary party is able to make their life as leader unpalatable. An illustrative example is that of Canadian Alliance leader Stockwell Day. After leading his party to a disappointing electoral finish in 2000, Day was under significant pressure from his parliamentary colleagues to relinquish the leadership. He argued that he could only be removed by the extra parliamentary party at a party conference to be held in approximately 15 months’ time. Significant segments of the parliamentary party revolted against Day, with more than a dozen members leaving the parliamentary caucus. Eventually, Day’s ability to lead the party was so diminished that he faced no real option to relinquishing his leadership even though formally he could not be removed except by party convention. Leaders who can formally be removed by the extra parliamentary party may be able to hang on for some months in the face of significant opposition from the parliamentary party but are unlikely to be able to maintain the leadership in the long run without support from their elected colleagues.

Comparing and interpreting party leader accountability What is clear from the above discussion is that there is no single norm in terms of how leaders are held accountable and potentially removed. This leaves the question of how best to make sense of these many different approaches and what their significance is in terms of a leader’s security in office. Bynander and ’t Hart suggest that: ‘Different rules for party leader

William Cross and André Blais 147

(de)selection do produce significant differences in the vulnerability of leaders to removal attempts’ (2007: 49). As displayed in Table 8.3, we suggest that the key variables in this regard are: whether a removal mechanism exists; whether the extra parliamentary party must in some way act to remove the leader; and when the parliamentary party has this authority, whether it is in any significant way encumbered in its use. The most secure leaders are those who cannot be formally removed. While pressure may be brought to try and force them from the leadership, at the end of the day, the decision and timing is ultimately theirs alone. These are closely followed by those whose removal requires the participation of the extra parliamentary party. We find that this authority is almost never formally used. While the threat of removal by the extra parliamentary party has resulted in leaders leaving office, the difficulty in organizing this large and dispersed group, and the time involved in doing so, provides leaders with significantly more security than when the parliamentary caucus can depose them. Those removable by their parliamentary colleagues are the most vulnerable. We divide these cases into two categories: those in which the parliamentary group’s ability to fire the leader is essentially unchecked and those in which this authority is in some way limited. The latter category primarily consists of instances where the parliamentary party does not select the leader on its own but rather shares

Table 8.3

Relative security of party leaders

Most secure

Least secure

No possibility of removal

removal requires action by extra parliamentary party

parliamentary party removes with some impediments

parliamentary party removes unemcumbered

(Gov’t) Cdn. Conservatives

(oppos) Cdn. Conservatives

NZ ACT

Aus. Nationals

Irish Fine Gael

Aus. Liberals

(Gov’t) Cdn. Liberals

(oppos) Cdn. Liberals

UK Tories

Aus. Labor

Cdn. NDP

(oppos) UK Labour

NZ Labour

Cdn. Bloc

UK Liberal Democrats

NZ National

(gov’t) UK Labour

Irish Progressive Dems. NZ First

NZ Greens

NZ United Future

Irish Labour

Irish Fianna Fáil

Irish Green NZ Maori

148 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

this responsibility with the extra parliamentary party. We suggest that an expanded selectorate tempers a parliamentary party’s use of the removal prerogative and we find that the vast majority of removals have occurred in parties where the parliamentary caucus retains both the selection and removal authority. When we consider the four categories suggested in Table 8.3, we see that only one leader has been removed in a case in which the extra parliamentary party holds the removal authority, while 16 have been removed by the parliamentary party. The 1967 case of Canadian Conservative leader Diefenbaker remains the only instance of a leader being ousted by the extra parliamentary party. Of the other 16, there is only one case in which the authority of the parliamentary party in leadership politics was in any real sense limited. In 15 of the cases leaders were selected by the party room and subject to removal by them at any time.5 The data in Table 8.4 support the argument made by Mair (1994) and others that expanding the leadership selectorate provides greater security and makes a leader less likely to be formally removed. This is true for several reasons. First, we find that when the power to select the leader is expanded beyond the parliamentary party, MPs are often stripped of the removal power. When a wider institution, typically the party conference, is vested Table 8.4

Leaders formally removed (1965–2007)

Australia (7) John Gorton, 1968 (Liberal) Bill Snedden, 1972 (Liberal) John Howard, 1989 (Liberal) Ian Sinclair, 1989 (Nationals) Robert Hawke, 1991 (Labour) John Hewson, 1994 (Liberal) Kim Beazley, 2006 (Labour)

parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered

government opposition opposition opposition government opposition opposition

loss seats held steady held steady loss seats loss seats loss seats *

Canada (1) John Diefenbaker, 1967 (Cons)

extra parliamentary party

opposition

held steady

Ireland (1) John Bruton, 2001 (Fine Gael)

parliamentary party unecumbered

opposition

gained seats

New Zealand (5) Arnold Nordmeyer, 1965 (Lab) Robert Muldoon, 1984 (Nat) Jim McLay, 1986 (Nat) Michael Moore, 1993 (Lab) Bill English, 2003 (National)

parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered parliamentary party unecumbered

opposition opposition opposition opposition opposition

held steady loss seats loss seats gained seats loss seats

United Kingdom (3) Edward Heath, 1975 (Cons) parliamentary party unecumbered Margaret Thatcher, 1990 (Cons) parliamentary party unecumbered Ian Duncan Smith, 2003 (Cons) parliamentary party ecumbered

opposition loss seats government loss seats opposition *

(* Beazley and Duncan Smith did not lead their party in the election prior to their removal).

William Cross and André Blais 149

with the review and removal authority the threat is less proximate as it is only able to be exercised at prescribed times – typically once per electoral cycle. Extra parliamentary party members are also not as vested in day to day party affairs and have less at stake in the party’s short-term success than do MPs. The result is that they both have less opportunity and may be less inclined to remove an incumbent who they selected as leader. When the parliamentary group maintains the removal authority, it appears less likely to use it when there is a broader selectorate. Elected officials we interviewed suggested that parliamentary parties are reluctant to remove a leader chosen by a broader selectorate, and indeed we have only one case of this occurring – the removal of Ian Duncan Smith by the UK Conservatives. The relative security of the leader influences his/her reaction to an imminent challenge and the character of any transition to a new leader. Challenges brought against leaders chosen by their parliamentary colleagues tend to be resolved quickly, either through an immediate party room vote or the sudden resignation of a leader facing defeat in such a vote. We can contrast these with long, drawn out struggles in parties in which the extra parliamentary party is formally involved in the removal process. There are many examples of this with the most recent at the time of writing being that of Gordon Brown in the United Kingdom. Labour party rules provide that their leader, when in government, can only be removed if a petition in support of another candidate as leader is endorsed by one-fifth of MPs and a subsequent motion calling for a new leadership contest is passed by a majority of delegates at the annual party conference. These rules made Brown very difficult to remove. A challenge would have required a competitor to step forward, win significant support from the parliamentary party and then carry a majority of conference delegates simply to spark a contest. Because the party conference is held at a fixed date and cannot be brought forward for a leadership challenge, the leader is vulnerable only once per year. Thus when a group of MPs, in January 2010, called for a vote of their colleagues to determine whether there was continued confidence in Brown’s leadership this was little more than a publicity stunt aimed at embarrassing the leader as there is no provision in party rules for such a vote and if one was held it would have no authority. The Canadian parties provide many similar examples. Liberal Prime Minister Jean Chrétien was under sustained attack within his parliamentary party from supporters of leadership rival Paul Martin from 2000 onwards. Chrétien could only be removed by a vote at a party convention held once per election cycle. While it was apparent that Chrétien would likely lose such a vote, he used his authority as leader to delay the party gathering as long as possible. When he could put off the process no longer he announced, in autumn 2002, his planned retirement (for some 17 months later) thus circumventing any removal vote. Martin’s supporters generally opposed Chrétien’s remaining as party leader for this extended period but their only

150 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

options were to accept this proposition or fight a lengthy leadership removal contest that would divide the party and if they won remove Chrétien perhaps six months earlier. Had the parliamentary party held the removal authority it is likely that this rivalry would have been resolved as much as three years earlier. Interestingly, after Martin became leader and Prime Minister, the party amended its rules to eliminate any chance of a removal vote while its leader is serving as Prime Minister. We can contrast these cases with those in which the parliamentary party holds the removal authority. While there are many examples, we focus on the case of New Zealand Prime Minister, and National party leader, Jim Bolger as he was similarly situated to Canada’s Chrétien and provides a useful comparison. Bolger had won three elections on the trot when he was challenged for the party leadership by fellow parliamentarian Jenny Shipley. Bolger first learned of the developing challenge upon his return from a Commonwealth heads of state meeting on a Saturday. Shipley met with Bolger the next day, claimed to have the support of a majority of her colleagues and promised to force a leadership vote when the parliamentary caucus next met early that week. Bolger accepted defeat and made a deal that very day with Shipley that he would immediately announce his resignation as party leader to take effect some weeks later after attending a planned APEC conference (Bolger, 1998). Had the National party adopted rules similar to those in place in the Canadian Liberal or UK Labour parties this contest would almost certainly have played out in public over many months as preparations were made for a gathering of the extra parliamentary party to resolve it. The willingness of parties in which the parliamentary caucus holds the removal authority to cycle through leaders is also evident in the recent case of the Australian Liberals. In the two years following their defeat in the 2007 election the party had three leaders. Outgoing Prime Minister Howard announced his resignation on election night. Within a week he was replaced by Brendan Nelson who lasted in the leadership for ten months before being ousted and replaced by Malcolm Turnbull who in turn was ousted some 15 months later in favour of Tony Abbott. Similar if, somewhat slower, cycling through leaders can be found in other parties in which parliamentarians control leadership politics. For example, the NZ National Party, after losing government in 1999, churned through leaders Jenny Shipley, Bill English and Don Brash relatively quickly before settling on John Key who seems to have gained some security in his position by winning the 2008 election. We find that leaders who are either formally removed or resign under pressure are likely to have led their party to a disappointing electoral showing in the most recent campaign. This is consistent with the literature suggesting that parties’ typical responses to an electoral setback include some form of internal change (see, for example, Harmel and Janda, 1994; Harmel, 2002). Of the 17 leaders who have been formally removed, 15 led

William Cross and André Blais 151

their party in the prior election. In nine of these cases the party won a lower seat share in the most recent election compared with the prior one and in four cases won a similar seat total (within one percentage point). As shown in Table 8.4, in only two of these 15 cases of removal had the party performed better electorally under the incumbent – Michael Moore in the New Zealand Labour Party and John Bruton in Ireland’s Fine Gael. In Bruton’s case, while the party won more seats in his last campaign the election resulted in his party’s removal from government, so only in the case of Moore can it be said that the incumbent’s last campaign was arguably a success. We have 50 cases in which a leader resigning under pressure had led the party in the prior election and the party had contested at least two elections.6 In 32 of these cases the leader ‘forced’ from office led the party to a worse result in the most recent election compared with 13 cases in which the party increased its vote share and five where it remained essentially steady. Many of the 13 cases were also electoral disappointments despite the parties’ increased seat share. This grouping includes John Turner (Canadian Liberals), Gough Whitlam (Australian Labor), Andrew Peacock (Australian Liberals), Neil Kinnock (UK Labour), and Michael Howard (UK Conservatives). While all of these leaders saw their party do slightly better, in terms of seats won in the election prior to their vacating the leadership, the results were widely viewed with disappointment within the party. Leaders who resigned under pressure despite leading their party to a better electoral result also include Don Brash (NZ National) and Charles Kennedy (UK Liberal Democrats) both of whom resigned in the face of personal scandals unrelated to their party’s electoral fortunes. In short, leaders are often removed, or persuaded to leave, after leading their party to a disappointing electoral outcome. Given the key importance of who holds the removal authority to the politics of deselection, it is necessary to consider the relationship between leadership selection and removal rules. While there is not a perfect correlation, as suggested above, parties that have broadened the selectorate are significantly more likely to have also stripped the parliamentary power of the sole authority to remove the leader. It is thus important to understand the parties’ motivation in broadening their leadership selectorate, which has always predated expansion of the removal authority. This is a large question that we deal with in detail elsewhere (Cross and Blais, forthcoming) and can only address in summary form here. Generally, we find that parties have expanded authority over leadership politics to include the extra parliamentary party when three conditions exist: they have suffered a significant electoral defeat, they are in opposition, and a precedent exists within their party system for such an expansion. We also find that new parties are more likely to include their grassroots membership in leadership politics. All of the parties that now include party members from outside the elected caucus in their leadership politics moved to a broader selectorate while in

152 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

opposition, with the only exception being the Irish Progressive Democrats. Furthermore, in all but one of these cases, the party did so either at their formation or after a disappointing electoral result. The question remains, however, why some parties, particularly the major parties in Australia and New Zealand have not broadened the group of formal participants in leadership politics. When asked, the most common reason given by party elites in these countries is that the three-year electoral cycle does not allow the time for a long, drawn out leadership selection process. They point to leadership contests with broader selectorates in the United Kingdom and Canada (where parliaments can last for up to five years) taking six months or longer and argue that with elections held every two and a half to three years they simply cannot afford to be ‘leaderless’ for this long a period. They also point to what might be considered a negative contagion effect. In both countries, smaller parties have experimented with balloting their members on the leadership question. Elites in the major parties point with some derision to the experiences of the Australian Democrats and New Zealand ACT. They argue that in both cases these processes led to the selection of electorally weak leaders, created unnecessary dissension within the party and did not result in any favourable return from voters. Whether or not this criticism is well founded, what is important is the perception that the more inclusive selection rules were partially responsible for organizational chaos and electoral setbacks. We suggest that there is also an important institutional factor that accounts for the different approaches taken in these countries. The electoral systems used in both Australia and New Zealand mitigate the regional consequences of electoral setbacks. In quite a few cases of parties adopting reforms including the broader membership in leadership politics in Canada, Ireland, and the UK, one of the compelling arguments put forward by proponents of change was that the parliamentary caucus was largely confined to a few regions. This was an important rationale in the case of the Canadian Liberals, United Kingdom Liberals and Conservatives and Irish Fine Gael. For example, the UK Tories had no MPs from Scotland or Wales at the time of reform, Fine Gael had almost no representation from Dublin and the Canadian Liberal caucus was dominated by Francophone Canadians. In each instance, reformers argued that the parliamentary party was too narrow and geographically unrepresentative to be charged exclusively with leadership selection. The same phenomenon has not occurred in Australia and New Zealand. Representatives to the federal Australian Senate are elected via the single transferable vote within each state. This guarantees representation from each state within the parliamentary caucuses of the major parties. And as the Australian parties allow senators to participate in the selection of leaders, they have not faced situations like those outlined above in the Canadian, British and Irish cases in which key geographic regions were not represented in the parliamentary caucus. Both the Liberals and Labor have had represen-

William Cross and André Blais 153

tation in the party room from all states for leadership elections in recent decades. Similarly, the use of closed national lists in the New Zealand form of MMP allows the major parties to ensure representation from all parts of the country in their parliamentary caucuses. For example, both Labour and the National party have had representation from the North Island, the South Island and the city of Auckland in every recent parliament.

Party leader accountability in an era of personalized politics: Conclusions There is no denying the centrality of party leaders in contemporary Westminster democracies (see for example, O’Leary, 1991; McLeay, 1995; Savoie, 1999). While leaders may once have been ‘first among equals’, their increased prominence has correctly led some observers to suggest they are becoming more akin to ‘presidents’ within a parliamentary system. In this chapter we have considered the rules and norms surrounding the removal of party leaders in Westminster democracies. While the ability to remove a leader is now nearly universal, we find little consistency in the methods used to hold leaders to account. The absence of state regulation of leadership politics (in contrast with some presidential systems such as the United States) provides parties with complete discretion in determining how to select and remove their leaders. In this sense the procedures they adopt give us a glimpse into their democratic ethos. And the adoption of different practices results in a wide variance in the security of leaders’ tenure. We suggest that the key variables are whether some party body has the authority to remove the leader, which group in the party has this removal prerogative and whether it is in some way checked in using it. We argue that leaders whose parliamentary colleagues are able to depose them are far more vulnerable than are those whose removal requires action by the extra parliamentary party. Because most leaders leave office only when facing significant internal pressure to do so, leadership transitions take on a very different character in parties in which the parliamentary group is able to quickly depose a leader than in those in which embattled leaders are able to hold on for lengthy periods of time because their removal requires support from, and organization of, the extra parliamentary party. Thus leaders are removed both considerably more quickly and more often in Australia and New Zealand where the parliamentary parties continue to dominate leadership politics. Leaders respond to their institutional and political contexts in attempting to increase their security in office. Accordingly, we suspect that the rules determining their relative security influence the manner in which they interact with their parliamentary and party colleagues. Leaders who are removable in the party room have greater incentive to continuously concern themselves with maintaining the support of their fellow legislators

154 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases

while those who are formally accountable to the broader party should be motivated to cultivate support at the grassroots level. While we do not examine the implications of different deselection rules on the behaviour of leaders in this chapter doing so is an obvious next step as one might expect that leaders removable by their parliamentary caucus will be more involved in issues such as candidate selection. The increased importance of leaders in the governing sphere coupled with the personalization of campaigns centring around the leader suggest that a party’s rank-and-file members should increasingly desire to be involved in leadership politics. While the general trend is in this direction, there has been considerable resistance particularly in the case of leadership removal. Parliamentary parties who work in close proximity with leaders and whose political livelihood is interwoven with the success of the leader are in a unique position to judge his/her suitability to remain in the job. Party caucuses also are able to act quickly and often quietly in removing a leader preventing the long drawn out, highly divisive affairs that often occur when these battles are taken to the extra parliamentary party. Thus, there are competing interests at stake in rule-making over leadership politics. Expansion of authority to include the broader membership may seem more democratic but it may come at real costs in terms of efficiency and party cohesion.

Notes *We are indebted to many colleagues who have helped with this research. Among those who have been generous with their time and expertise are Raymond Miller and Elizabeth McLeay in New Zealand, Paul ‘t Hart and Ian McAllister in Australia, Michael Gallagher and Michael Marsh in Ireland, and Thomas Quinn and Meg Russell in the United Kingdom. We have also benefited from research assistance provided by John Crysler, Christel Hyshka, Patrick Lemieux, Martin Croteau and Joanna Sweet. 1 Regionally-based parties, such as the Scottish National Party, whose leader’s primary legislative position is in a sub national legislature, are excluded. 2 Interviews were conducted in Auckland and Wellington in November 2007, in Canberra in December 2007, in London in March 2008, and in Dublin in October 2008. The Canadian interviews were conducted in Ottawa, Toronto and Calgary over a longer period of time. 3 Heath and Thatcher both formally resigned after failing to secure the necessary number of votes to retain the leadership in the first ballot of a challenge. These are counted as ‘removals’ as essentially the Conservative party process used at the time was akin to the first ballot being a ‘spill’ motion which if passed (defined as the incumbent not reaching the required threshold) was followed by an open contest. This interpretation is buttressed by the allowing of new candidates to join the race on the second ballot. In essence, both Heath and Thatcher were removed on the first ballot and open contests ensued in which they both declined to participate. 4 The Progressive Democrats ceased operations in late 2009. 5 After John Bruton was removed from the leadership, Fine Gael adopted a rule requiring a six month grace period after a leader survives a challenge. Bruton had

William Cross and André Blais 155 survived a party room vote just two months prior to the vote which succeeded in removing him from office. 6 This eliminates Canadian Alliance leader Stockwell Day whose party ran in only one general election and Australian leaders Alexander Downer (Liberal) and Simon Crean (Labor), Geoffrey Palmer from New Zealand Labour, Michel Gauthier from the Bloc Quebecois, and Menzies Campbell from the UK Liberal Democrats who never led their party in a general election.

Bibliography Alderman, K. (1999) ‘Revision of leadership selection procedures in the Conservative party’, Parliamentary Affairs, 52(2), 260–74. Bolger, J. (1998) A View From the Top: My Seven Years as Prime Minister (Auckland: Viking Press). Bynander, F. and ’t Hart, P. (2007) ‘The politics of party leader survival and succession: Australia in comparative perspective’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 42(1), 47–72. Carty, R. K. and Blake, D. (1999) ‘The adoption of membership votes for choosing party leaders: The experience of Canadian parties’, Party Politics, 5(2), 211–24. Courtney, J. (1995) Do Conventions Matter? (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press). Cross, W. (1996) ‘Direct election of provincial party leaders in Canada, 1985–1995: The end of the leadership convention’, Canadian Journal of Political Science, 29(2), 295–315. Cross, W. and Blais, A. (forthcoming) ‘Who selects the party leader?’, Party Politics. Engelman, F. C. and Schwartz, M. A. (1975) Canadian Political Parties: Origin, Character and Impact (Scarborough: Prentice Hall). Harmel, R. (2002) ‘Party organizational change: Competing explanations?’, in R. Luther and F. Muller-Rommel (eds) Political Parties in the New Europe: Political and Analytical Challenges (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 119–42. Harmel, R. and Janda, K. (1994) ‘An integrated theory of party goals and party change’, Journal of Theoretical Politics, 6(3), 259–87. Heidar, K. and Koole, R. (2000) ‘Parliamentary party groups compared’, in K. Heidar and R. Koole (eds) Parliamentary Party Groups in European Democracies: Political Parties Behind Closed Doors (London: Routledge), pp. 248–70. Henderson, J. (1981) Rowling: The Man and the Myth (Auckland: Australia and New Zealand Book Company). Kenig, O. (2009) ‘Democratization of party leadership selection: Do wider selectorates produce more competitive contests?’, Electoral Studies, 28(2), 240–7. LeDuc, L. (2001) ‘Democratizing party leadership selection’, Party Politics, 7(3), 323–41. McAllister, I. (1996) ‘Leaders’, in L. LeDuc, R. G. Niemi and P. Norris (eds) Comparing Democracies: Elections and Voting in Global Perspective (Thousand Oaks: Sage). McLeay, E. (1995) The Cabinet and Political Power in New Zealand (Auckland: Oxford University Press). Mair, P. (1994) ‘Party organizations: From civil society to the state’, in R. S. Katz and P. Mair (eds) How Parties Organize: Change and Adaptation in Party Organizations in Western Democracies (London: Sage Publications), pp. 1–22. Massicotte, L. and Blais, A. (2000) ‘Term of office, length of’, in R. Rose (ed.) International Encyclopedia of Elections (Washington: Congressional Quarterly Press), pp. 308–10.

156 Holding Party Leaders to Account: The Westminster Cases O’Leary, B. (1991) ‘A Taoiseach: The Irish Prime Minister’, in G. W. Jones (ed.) West European Prime Ministers (London: Frank Cass), pp. 133–62. Poguntke, T. and Webb, P. (eds) (2005) The Presidentialization of Politics: A Comparative Study of Modern Democracies (New York: Oxford University Press). Powell, G. B. (1982) Contemporary Democracies: Participation, Stability and Violence (Cambridge: Harvard University Press). Quinn, T. (2005) ‘Leasehold or freehold? Leader eviction rules in the British Conservative and Labour parties’, Political Studies, 53(4), 793–815. Savoie, D. (1999) Governing from the Centre: The Concentration of Power in Canadian Politics (Toronto: University of Toronto Press). Weller, P. (1983) ‘The vulnerability of prime ministers: A comparative perspective’, Parliamentary Affairs, 36(1), 96–117. Weller, P. (1985) First Among Equals: Prime Ministers in Westminster Systems (Sydney: Allen & Unwin). Weller, P. (1994) ‘Party rules and the dismissal of prime ministers: Comparative perspectives from Britain, Canada and Australia’, Parliamentary Affairs, 47(1), 133–43.

9 The Firing Line: When and Why Do Prime Ministers Fire Ministerial Colleagues? Keith Dowding and Elizabeth McLeay

Moving ministers on: UK and New Zealand experiences Prime Ministers (PMs) in parliamentary systems shape ministerial succession through hiring and firing their ministerial colleagues.1 This chapter identifies the different ways in which PMs in New Zealand (NZ) and the United Kingdom (UK) punish ministers who perform poorly, examining the similarities and differences that exist both institutionally and in the personality or style of the PMs involved. We explore this issue by thinking about the relationship between PMs and ministers in agency terms. Cabinet government can be thought of as a system whereby the government is accountable to parliament and through parliament to the electorate. In practice that line of accountability works through the party (Brennan and Hamlin, 1993; Strøm, 2000). The PM is supported by her party (or parties in coalition governments) whilst the party gains enough public support.2 The PM’s role is to construct and direct government on behalf of her party, and each minister is directly an agent of the PM and through her indirectly an agent of their party. NZ and the UK provide useful case studies through which to explore ministerial dismissals because they share the Westminster heritage and have broadly similar parliamentary and cabinet systems (Rhodes and Weller, 2005; Rhodes et al., 2009). Both PMs run cabinet government with a dominant PM, supported by parliamentary majorities, and with professional ‘neutral’ bureaucracies. The PMs face similar sorts of constraints when they hire and fire. One constraint consists of the ministerial team or front bench line-up they inherit when they take over the prime ministership – their ‘legacy’ cabinets. Another concerns the requirements of representative criteria such as geographical distribution, gender, ethnicity and, of course, ideological disposition. NZ and UK PMs share much in common. There are also important institutional differences between NZ and the UK that also structure prime ministerial behaviour in forming and sustaining 157

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their governments. Firstly, PMs are less secure in NZ than the UK. Whilst the process of challenging PMs has changed in both the major parties in the UK since World War II, their position has always been more secure than in NZ where a challenge from within the parliamentary party can occur with little notice. Between 1949 and 2008, ten men and two women served as PMs in New Zealand. Some had very brief tenures: Walter Nash, 1957–60; John Marshall, 1972; Norman Kirk, 1972–74; Wallace (Bill) Rowling, 1974–75; Geoffrey Palmer, 1989–90; Mike Moore, 1990; and Jenny Shipley, 1997–98. Of the 12 PMs, the National Party’s Sidney Holland and Jim Bolger and Labour’s David Lange and Geoffrey Palmer all lost their positions while still in office, either by choosing to resign before they were pushed or through a caucus vote. Rejection by one’s peers is clearly not just a theoretical possibility when parliamentary parties hire and fire their leaders. Secondly, in NZ since the 1993–96 parliamentary term, governments have been, if not in formal coalitions, tacitly so, meaning the PM has to take into account other strategic factors in ministerial choice (Dowding and Dumont, 2009).3 In the UK, PMs head single-party majority governments, while in NZ, since the country adopted proportional representation, PMs have had to manage more complex governing arrangements.4 Thirdly, even in majority-party governments the NZ PMs do not always select the cabinet and are led by the party caucus to a much greater extent than has ever been the case in the UK.5 Fourthly, whilst the full cabinets are of roughly equal size there are more members of the government in the UK (60–100 in the period we cover) than in NZ (16–28). However, due to the smaller size of the NZ legislature the ratio of ministers to ministrables (potential ministers) is much lower. These factors lead to a much lower turnover in NZ than the UK. Finally, turnover is affected by NZ’s shorter length of term. The UK has a tradition of a reshuffle mid-term, where the PM moves ministers around and brings in new faces to renew government, a process less possible with NZ’s three-year terms, as opposed to the UK’s up to five years. We mention these constraints where important but compare the selection and dismissal problems of PMs in the UK and NZ in agency terms.

An agency theory perspective According to agency theory, delegation occurs when agents have time and information or skills the principal lacks (Kiewiet and McCubbins, 1991; Aghion and Tirole, 1997). A principal wants her agent to do the job as if motivated by the principal’s preferences. We identify two agency problems: agency rent and adverse selection. Agency rent occurs when a principal hires an agent to carry out certain activities on her behalf, but he does not carry out those activities efficiently or effectively. The problem can emerge because of asymmetric information or hidden action. The agent can observe more closely what he is doing

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than can his principal. He may not work efficiently. He might not put in the effort or lack the necessary skills. Secondly, where the agent does work hard with the required skills, he might not share the principal’s preferences. In our case, the minister has different policy preferences from the PM. Following Bressler-Gonen and Dowding (2009), we call the first problem ‘agent-shirking’ (or ‘shirking’) and the second ‘policy-shifting’ (or ‘shifting’). Adverse selection occurs where there is heterogeneity in the population of qualified candidates and those with some undesirable characteristics are most likely to be those who come forward. In the ministerial market the most ambitious are also likely to be those who want power and/or have strong policy preferences. The power-hungry might appeal to a PM because they show great loyalty in order to be chosen, but might be inefficient ministers in other regards; or once chosen pursue their own preferred policies rather than those of the PM. In other words, compared to less ambitious people who have not caught the eye of the PM or chief whip they might be more likely to shirk or to policy-shift once in a position of power. Ministrables who are efficient and who also have strong policy preferences are likely to gain their own following within the party. These people who have to be chosen are sometimes called ‘big beasts’ (King, 1994). However, if they have strong policy preferences they are also more likely to policyshift and perhaps challenge the PM in the future. Thus adverse selection can be a great problem for the PM. The problem with big beasts need not be due to asymmetric information or hidden action. To be sure, when a big beast moves against a PM he will hide his actions at the early stages, but the PM might well have known from the appointment stage that the minister might cause her policy problems. She is not fully free to choose the cabinet of her desires because she too is an agent of her party. How PMs deal with shirkers and shifters varies. We can describe four basic types: butchers, dominators, operators and consensus seekers. PMs may exhibit more than one of these characteristics; they are non-exclusive. They emerge not only through the natural personalities of PMs but also through the environment in which a PM finds herself (Dowding, 2008). These four prime ministerial styles help us to understand how PMs construct, manage and reconstruct their cabinets, as we explain below. Even established PMs might be forced to choose ministers whom they dare not leave out of their cabinet. These big beasts are the cases where adverse selection and agency rent can be easily distinguished. King recognizes, of course, that PMs dominate, and can often determine policy initiatives in areas of their interest. PMs often appoint ministers to specific departments in order to pursue policies the PM wants. Nevertheless, King argues that some ministers are relatively autonomous and are sometimes given that autonomy by the PM. Following King (1994), we argue that all PMs have to deal with big beasts, a particular problem for adverse selection. Big beasts stand out because they are accorded special status by their colleagues in cabinet and treated cautiously by

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their PMs. All have some following in their parties, and they are the ministers most recognized by the general public. More importantly, however, each is left largely free to run their departments, and the PM needs to get them on board for major policy initiatives.

Firing ministers in the United Kingdom Dealing with agency rent Most dismissals in government occur as a result of problems of agency rent. The minister has not been up to the job. Some of these we might call ‘forced exits’. They are the dismissals that occur following a specific identifiable problem that is laid at the door of the minister himself. From 1945 to 2007 (Attlee to end of Blair) there were 53 such forced exits. Many more exits that occurred following a major reshuffle can be categorized as ministers losing their job because of past performance. Berlinski et al. (2010) show that ministers in the UK who have had calls for their resignation are less durable than ministers who are ‘clean’. In other words, such ministers are much more likely to be removed during a cabinet reshuffle. This is the operation of PMs removing ministers because of agency rent problems. These are resignations due to agent shirking as we have defined it. It is much more difficult to give precise figures on removals due to policy shifting. Indridason and Kam (2008) claim that most reshuffles in cabinet occur in order to stop such policy shifting. On their argument PMs move ministers around in order to stop them developing long-term policies within departments. We can see where policy disagreement leads to ministerial exit. During the period 1945–2007 there are 68 resignations due to policy disagreement or personality clash. The former (64) are ministers choosing to resign because they do not agree with government policy. Some PMs such as Attlee (1945–51) were known as effective ‘butchers’ – loyal to ministers doing their job but not hesitating to get rid of those seen as ineffective (Thomas, 1998: 7–8). Macmillan (1957–63) was also thought to be loyal until the ‘night of the long knives’ when he sacked eight cabinet ministers and nine junior ministers to reshape his government because of falling popularity. The move failed: the butchery was perceived as too bloody and done cynically for electoral reasons rather than reasons of good government. Margaret Thatcher (1979–90) was also seen as an effective butcher. Without operating an inner cabinet she effectively used the cabinet committee system to ensure most issues were not discussed at full cabinet. She often spoke to ministers on a one-to-one basis and was famous for her lack of patience if they or civil servants did not quickly get to the point. She favoured a few ministers for advice, largely those who shared her policy aims, though William Whitelaw of somewhat different character was a ‘rock’ throughout her first government. Thomas (1998: 37) says ‘Margaret Thatcher

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did not leave ministers secure in their posts. By the end of her term in office she was the only remaining member of the original 1979 Cabinet’. The changes she made were not primarily on the grounds of competence but to shift the ideological balance within the government. Her stamp upon every area of government policy was immense. Heseltine, who later famously resigned, was always more of a social conservative than Thatcher, but was seen as ‘one of us’, because of his ‘can do’ dynamism, whereas, for example, Mark Carlisle was sacked as Education Secretary despite being regarded as an effective administrator largely because he was considered to have ‘gone native’. In his case policy shifting was punished. Earlier Eden (1955–57) had dominated policy-making in his government, though less effectively, often getting bogged down in policy detail rather than allowing his ministers to get on with their jobs. Like Thatcher he often saw ministers alone, but was considered a good chair of the cabinet. Of course his premiership is marked by the Suez crisis, which broke him. Wilson (1964–70; 1974–76) was an operator. He set up ministers with convergent responsibilities so one would check the other, and liked to reshuffle his cabinet, particularly in his first administration, to ensure that no minister could dominate policy in any one area. In his second administration he allowed ministers more discretion. Heath (1970–74) also led from the front, but his government was knocked off course by events and then largely responded to those events. Major (1990–97) had problems in his second administration (from 1992), which was characterized by constant crisis. Major’s rise was rapid, and his fall long as he presided over a deeply split party and was seen as a weak PM, perhaps unfairly given the deep divisions in his party. Much more collegial than Thatcher, he was dependent upon other cabinet heavyweights such as Heseltine and Clarke, though relations with Clarke cooled as Major moved to the right to hold his party together. Seeking consensus he was accused of being a poor butcher, not sacking ministers when he should – for example Norman Lamont after the fiasco of leaving ERM – and of letting personal friendships get in the way – for example hanging on to the scandal-mired David Mellor. He was loath to sack ministers unless absolutely necessary yet shed them at an alarming rate. He was criticized for dithering, though on becoming PM he quickly disposed of the poll tax and introduced the council tax. In autumn 1994 eight ‘Eurosceptical’ Conservative MPs had the whip removed, but were soon brought back: Major needed their votes as his majority was disappearing. Major’s public indecisiveness was aptly summarized in Lamont’s resignation speech: ‘We give the impression of being in office, but not in power’. Major himself said that his premiership was ‘too conservative, too conventional. Too safe, too often. Too reactive. Later too often on the backfoot’ (Major, 1999: xxi). Like Churchill and Wilson before him, Blair (1997–2007) was accused of cronyism. These accusations emerged early in his premiership as he

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ennobled close friends and confidants. He felt the need, after 18 years of Conservative rule, to find people outside the Commons who could do government jobs. Blair did not create more Lords than previous PMs. Later, accusations of peerages in return for donations to the party and blatant spin, notably over the evidence of Saddam Hussein and weapons of mass destruction, ruined his ‘pretty straight sort of guy’ image (self-proclaimed when it emerged Bernie Ecclestone had donated £1 million at the same time Formula 1 was being exempted from the ban on tobacco sponsorship). He further downgraded the importance of the cabinet, preferring one-to-one meetings with ministers in his famous ‘sofa government’. He made effective use of cabinet committees, putting those he trusted as chairs. Like Thatcher, Blair dominated policy in areas that caught his eye; though he allowed Gordon Brown at the Treasury to take on enormous powers in domestic social policy, as the Treasury increasingly became involved in policy formation and implementation through its line-by-line scrutiny of the spending power of departments. Blair, like Thatcher, was a policy outlier in his own government, and like her suffered from a constant leakage of ministers unhappy with policy and interference. Still seen as a potential winner of elections however, the Labour Party seemed more reluctant to let Blair go than had the Conservatives with Thatcher. He was very loyal to his ministers, and was the only PM of the modern period to bring back a full cabinet minister he had himself sacked. However, the conflict with Gordon Brown that defined his premiership led to speculation at every cabinet reshuffle about whether he would remove Brownites and impose his own people. Dealing with adverse selection The first cabinet of Margaret Thatcher, who by the end of her tenure was seen as one of the most dominant of PMs, was described by some as ‘Willie Whitelaw’s cabinet’. Whitelaw had been her main rival for leadership of the Conservative Party. He was so loyal to Thatcher’s predecessor, Edward Heath, that he did not stand against Heath in the leadership election, only entering the race following Heath’s withdrawal, by which time Thatcher had an unassailable lead. But her first, ‘legacy’ cabinet was composed of Heathites or, as she would later dub them, ‘wets’. However, she was able to get her supporters into key economic portfolios, and she was lucky that Whitelaw proved as loyal to her as he had been to Heath. We can see from this example that PMs might have little choice over whom to have in their cabinet, but may have more freedom over where to place people – though not always. Whitelaw was more a confidant and loyal supporter of Thatcher than a big beast – though he could not have been left out and was largely autonomous at the Home Office. Michael Heseltine is an obvious big beast, though King suggests that Thatcher did not recognize that fact, which led to

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his resignation in 1986. The other possibility is that she did recognize his status and wanted him out of the cabinet as he was too big a threat to her, though his resignation seemed to surprise her at the time. Certainly, he would have been a greater threat had he resigned over the Conservatives’ disastrous poll tax in her third term. Peter Walker is an unusual case since he was such a quiet member of Thatcher’s cabinet. He is accorded special status by King (1994: 205–6, passim) who describes Walker’s position in some detail. Walker served for almost the entire period of Thatcher’s incumbency. A known wet and dissenter from many Thatcherite policies, he kept his head down and did the jobs he was asked to do quietly. Without obvious reason to sack him, Thatcher kept him as he had a substantial backing in the party, representing the Heathites she had overturned and giving them less cause to grumble. Walker was largely autonomous in both the Agriculture and Welsh Office portfolios. Nigel Lawson might also be seen as a big beast as he was also a key figure for a while and ran the Treasury autonomously. Geoffrey Howe, originally a key Thatcher ally, became a more powerful version of Peter Walker, a quiet member of cabinet with a lot of allies in the party but not an obvious supporter of the more radical polities of his leader. Howe’s resignation speech effectively ended Thatcher’s premiership. Tony Benn is a rather different example. Continually a thorn in the side of Wilson and Callaghan, he was a convenient bogeyman for the Conservative press. However, he commanded substantial support in both the parliamentary and wider party. Other figures described by King are big beasts in the sense the prime minister had no choice but to include them, sometimes because they represented factions within the party (for example, James Callaghan and Roy Jenkins in Wilson’s Labour governments) or were simply too important within the party or publicly (for example, Rab Butler was described as the ‘indispensable man’ in successive Conservative administrations (King, 1994: 221). Gordon Brown is one of the biggest beasts of all. He was given great autonomy by Blair as part of the deal leading to Brown’s stepping aside in the party leadership election. Blair was unable to offer Brown anything less than the Chancellor’s job, and Brown, backed by large factions within the Labour Party, was too important to be removed or shuffled. Brown used this power within the Treasury to develop domestic welfare policies well beyond the normal Treasury brief. Sometimes Blair would discover aspects of policy through selective leaks at the same time as the public and then Blair’s supporters would counter-leak, as each side tried to take credit for policy initiatives. Brown acted the classic double agent (Andeweg, 2000); an agent of the PM and government and an agent for his own ambitions. From Blair’s point of view the problem of Brown was indeed one of adverse selection; his problem was that he had no choice but to select as he did.

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In all these examples, and in many others, PMs are forced to choose certain people as ministers because they are too powerful to be left out. They lead important factions or are supported by too many backbench MPs of the governing party to be ignored. A PM who is relatively weak, such as Thatcher when she first came to power, might have her cabinet virtually imposed on her by the needs of the party. In John Major’s case, he was forced to choose both Europhiles (those who wanted closer links to the European Union) and Eurosceptics (those who wanted weaker links) as that issue split the Conservatives down the middle. Having to place big beasts in a cabinet is an adverse selection problem. Big beasts are likely to be ambitious for the top job and are likely to have policy preferences of their own; but despite these negative features the PM cannot remove them. She is an agent of her party just as those ministers, through her, are agents of the party.

Firing ministers in New Zealand Dealing with agency rent Although many NZ ministers were notable policy shirkers or shifters, remarkably few were fired. From 1949 until 2008 (covering the PMs Sidney Holland until the end of Helen Clark) there were 17 mid-term forced exits (including one minister who was sacked twice). Most occurred when PMs were no longer leading single-party majority governments (McLeay, 2009). Sir Apirana Ngata resigned in 1934 after a Committee of Inquiry criticized his administration of the Native Affairs Department, but no other minister was fired until 1982. Apart from the scarcity of firings and the long period with none, there was a further oddity. PMs publicly reprimanded several shirkers by removing the relevant portfolios but permitted them to remain in the ministry. Also, five Labour shirkers lost their jobs at one time only to be subsequently reinstated, under the same PM. The small number of firings, and the interesting risks taken by PMs in allowing shirkers to return to the ministry, can partly be explained by the paucity of ministrables available, a consequence of the small, unicameral, House of Representatives (120–2 MPs since 1996). Minority governments have a particularly sparse choice, especially as a minimum of three years’ parliamentary experience is the usual criterion. With the notable exception of Roger Douglas (discussed below), policy shifters, in contrast, do not enjoy ministerial reincarnations under the same PM, and they leave the ministry altogether rather than just lose their portfolios: plainly, they are much greater risks for PMs than are shirkers. However, even though a number of ministers carved independent policy paths in various governments, it was not until 1982 that the then National Party PM, Robert Muldoon, told one of his ministers, Derek Quigley, an

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outspoken critic of economic policy, to apologize or to resign. Quigley, who had been a lead player in trying to unseat Muldoon, took the latter course of action. The 1984–90 Labour government saw two high-ranking ministers, Richard Prebble and Douglas, leave cabinet when they opposed the policy direction of their PM, David Lange, and criticized his leadership.6 After the caucus re-elected Douglas to cabinet when the next vacancy came up, in 1989, Lange resigned as PM, having already faced down challenges the year before (McQueen, 1991: 171–8; Rhodes et al., 2009: 130). This episode illustrates the institutional constraints on Labour PMs who have to accept the cabinet ministers elected by their parliamentary party colleagues, although PMs allocate portfolios and (since 1987) can appoint ministers (usually between three and six) outside cabinet. The next PM to dismiss a policy shifter was Jim Bolger (National Party) who sacked Winston Peters for going his own way on Maori development policy and for criticizing Bolger’s leadership. Peters then formed a new centrist party, NZ First. But the real problems for PMs came later, when their parties could no longer command a majority of the House on their own. One minister left the National-NZF government (1996–98), with Bolger as PM and Peters as Deputy, because she was unhappy with its direction; and a NZF minister was sacked for opposing his senior National Party counterpart. Then Bolger was deposed by a senior minister, Jenny Shipley, who subsequently fired Peters for taking an opposing stance on the sale of an airport and, moreover, for criticizing her (McLeay, 1999). Labour PM Helen Clark (1999–2008) dismissed Turiana Turia, a minister outside cabinet, from the Labour-Progressive minority government. Turia voted against the controversial Seabed and Foreshore legislation and also said she was resigning from the Labour party.7 The pattern by now is clear: policy shifters are no longer tolerated. Still, as the UK examples showed, being an effective butcher and a dominant PM do not necessarily go together, an interesting finding of this comparative study. That said, it does not always take a firing for a PM to deter potential shifters, or bring open shifters back into line. A case in point was Robert Muldoon who ruthlessly ruled his government between 1975 and 1984. Most ministers were too cowed to oppose him. Muldoon dealt with the shirkers not by firing them but by informing them they had no future in the party and therefore should not seek re-election to Parliament at the next general election. Except for the Quigley case, Muldoon avoided midterm firing by doing his butchery in the backroom. Interestingly, Muldoon continued the NZ tradition of making many decisions in full cabinet, and also allowed some autonomy in portfolio management. Nevertheless, there were constant mutterings behind the PM’s back, particularly between 1978 and 1981 when there was discontent with Muldoon’s interventionist economic policies (he was also Minister of Finance) and with his combative

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leadership style. A plan to unseat him in late 1980 failed at the last minute when the only contender, Deputy PM Brian Talboys, lost his nerve (James, 1986: 98–101; McLeay, 1995: 72–3; Templeton, 1995: 146–52). Despite Muldoon’s bullying manner – or perhaps because of it – Quigley was the only minister to be openly dismissed. Ministerial policy shifting was extraordinarily difficult under Muldoon, although he had his problems with backbench dissenters. Lange’s successor Geoffrey Palmer was one surprisingly effective butcher. Faced with inheriting Lange’s ministry – the legacy problem – Palmer adeptly managed a dramatic reshuffle of cabinet personnel by requiring six ministers who had said they would retire at the next election to resign their ministerial posts, allowing a radically different cabinet to contest the next election. This saved neither Palmer, who could not restore the public’s confidence in his government, nor his very brief successor, Moore, for Labour lost the 1990 general election. James Bolger, National Party PM, 1990–97, was both an operator and a butcher. He arrived in office with a large majority, inherited a financial crisis, and determinedly pursued the neo-liberal economic agenda. He dismissed Peters. But Bolger made a strategic error by promising a referendum on the electoral system. When the binding referendum was held in 1993, it confirmed the 1992 (non-binding) choice of the MMP electoral system. After the National Party only narrowly regained power in the 1993 election, Bolger moderated government policy and co-opted his most radical ministers in an effort to appease voters and to keep his government together in a parliamentary term that saw party defections and fragmentation. Bolger did not reappoint the neo-liberal Minister of Finance Ruth Richardson, to that portfolio after the 1993 election. She would accept no other (Richardson, 1995: 178–82) and resigned before the next election. Another minister was dropped after the election, and Bolger appointed two new cabinet ministers, bypassing the three ministers he had previously placed in the executive but outside cabinet. Bolger had to be adept in negotiation as well as in restructuring his cabinet, and managed to switch from steering a radically reforming cabinet to maintaining his party in office by manufacturing legislative coalitions. These skills served him well after the 1996 general election and the formation of the National – NZ First government. Despite their history of antagonism, Bolger and Peters developed an easy relationship, having negotiated a generous split of ministerial positions for the minor party and a distribution of portfolios that put most of the spending power in the hands of the senior coalition partner. There were no signs of dissent between the two when various NZ First ministers showed their inexperience and ineptitude and had to be dismissed. Bolger’s concessions to NZ First, however, lost him support amongst his colleagues and the prime ministership.

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Clark was a dominant PM, an effective operator, and a skilled butcher. She seldom hesitated to dismiss ministers, although she usually refrained from acting until the evidence against them was clear. When able ministers lost their positions, she waited until their punishment was completed, then accepted them back into the ministry. Apart from the dissident Turia, Clark dismissed two ministers for mistakes related to their portfolio responsibilities and six for personal misconduct. Under her watch an Alliance minister was also dismissed. There was never any attempt to remove Clark as PM. The party perceived her electoral strength and there was no obvious contender. Clark was a policy PM: ministers had to learn to keep up with her. Backed by an able head of staff, Heather Simpson (they were referred to as H1 and H2) Clark quickly learned to manage minority governments. Nevertheless, her first government, a coalition with the left-wing Alliance party, experienced difficulties when the Alliance split over personality and policy differences. But Clark led the government again after the 2002 and 2005 elections. After 2005 she managed a minority government that was supported by two ministers outside cabinet: Peters, NZF Leader and Minister of Foreign Affairs, and Peter Dunne, United Future Leader and Minister of Revenue. This constitutionally unusual arrangement was remarkably successful until Peters ran into problems over his and his party’s financial dealings. Clark waited months for the findings from several investigations into the accusations, giving rise to criticisms that she should have dismissed Peters rather than requiring him to take leave from his duties. This affair did not help the Labour-led government, and it lost the next election. Moving away from the tougher PMs towards the more consensual ones, Sidney Holland was a dominant National Party PM (1949–57) who led his party to its first success after being created in 1936 in an effort to unite the anti-Labour forces. Holland called an early election in 1951. His excuse was the bitter waterfront dispute that he then brutally suppressed using the armed forces and authoritarian legislation. Having won this election, he also won the next. Despite his outward aggression and toughness, in cabinet Holland clung to ministers loyal to him. He was not an effective butcher. When in 1954 a minister of Industries and Commerce became embroiled in a public conflict of interest, the PM merely required an exchange of the relevant portfolios. Surprisingly, one of Holland’s actions was to abolish the appointed upper house, thereby diminishing his patronage opportunities and the range of ministrables. The next National Party PM, Keith Holyoake, was a consensus seeker who headed a cabinet full of strong individuals. He took ‘straw polls’ of his parliamentary colleagues on the cabinet line-up (although he did not always comply with the majority view) (McLeay, 1995: 70). Holyoake was loyal to his colleagues, with sometimes counterproductive effects because alongside the major talents sat some very weak ministers whom he was loath to fire.

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Holyoake also expected ministers to be loyal to him. He scarcely ever reshuffled the pack (Wood, 1997: 39). Another consensual, collegial PM was Lange who defeated Muldoon’s National Party government at the 1984 snap general election. Lange learned too late how to prune his cabinet. Clever, witty and articulate, he was generally content to let his talented ministers go their own way, forging an economic and public sector revolution, until they went too far. Although his cabinet had been elected by the caucus, he expanded his patronage by creating positions outside cabinet which he appointed himself, initially appointing six undersecretaries. Lange’s problems really began after the highly successful 1987 general election. Retirements created four vacancies but when the time came to elect the new cabinet no sitting ministers lost their positions. Again, though, Lange changed the rules to get the team he wanted by getting permission from caucus to appoint four ministers outside cabinet – an innovation for NZ – and appointing three undersecretaries. Despite expanding the number of ministers with personal loyalties to himself, Lange had a major problem with policy shifters. Although he reshuffled portfolios to reduce the power of the radically neo-liberal economic ministers, the leaders of that group finally went too far, especially when they pushed for a flat tax. Lange dismissed the Minister of State-Owned Enterprises, Richard Prebble, who had not only promoted the sale of assets more energetically than the PM (and many other Labourites) wanted, but had also criticized the PM himself. The Minister of Finance, Douglas, shortly after said he could no longer work with Lange, and Lange took this as a letter of resignation (McLeay, 1995: 66–8). A Douglas ally, ironically a minister outside cabinet, resigned from his position. As noted, after Douglas was elected back into cabinet in 1989, Lange resigned. This example is a textbook case of the problems of principal-agent relationships complicated by particular institutional rules. Dealing with adverse selection Adverse selection is highly likely when the pool of ministrables is small, when PMs are selected by the parliamentary colleagues and therefore must be loyal to them, and when, as with Labour, PMs must accept their colleagues’ choice of cabinet ministers. Although PMs did not fire their poor ministers until the early 1980s, most reshuffled their ministries at the relatively high rate predicted and demonstrated by Kam and Indridason (2005). PMs such as Holyoake, Muldoon and Clark were adept at persuading ministers to retire quietly at the end of the parliamentary term. Thus the triennial term can be seen to have a two-way effect on the relationship between PM and minister: it provides a formal occasion and excuse for reshuffling the pack, discarding unsuitable ministers and demonstrating team renewal; but it inhibits mid-term dismissals, as opposed to retention and reshuffle. The risks to

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PMs elected by parliamentary parties are high. There is little time to rebuild party and public support after dealing with one’s adverse selections. Reshuffles are particularly likely when PMs find themselves with legacy cabinets. This might be the cabinet chosen by one’s predecessor (a price for taking over mid-office) or the team of frontbenchers and previous ministers built up while in opposition. But there’s also the situation when the legacy cabinet is one’s own: the tired line-up that needs a new look. Muldoon radically switched portfolios around to get the agents he wanted. He had two criteria: loyalty to himself (and he overworked some loyalists, leading to policy-shirking) and compliance with his policy direction (Templeton, 1995). Clark in 2007 had three cabinet vacancies created by an impending retirement, a return to the backbenches, and a dismissal, and a further gap because a minister outside cabinet resigned his warrant. Not only were the vacancies filled but Clark also changed around portfolio responsibilities. She said, ‘More than half the Cabinet Ministers named today were not in Cabinet in December 1999, and close to half were not in the Cabinet elected after the 2002 election’ stressing the regeneration of the party at all levels (Clark, 2007). Representative criteria can also lead to adverse selection. For example, Holyoake had a keen although blinkered awareness of representativeness criteria in his cabinet line-up: a rural-urban balance; a regional distribution; but a neglect of the growing demand for women’s representation despite having an appointable woman in caucus. Clark, too, saw representativeness, including Maori ministers, as important (Clark, 2007). Thus PMs confine their pools of ministrables. NZ PMs have had their share of big beasts. Holland was lucky that Holyoake, a potential threat, lost his seat in 1938 and was out of Parliament for five years. This meant that he could not contest the leadership in 1940, and Holland won (Gustafson, 1997: 132–5). According to Gustafson (1997: 135), Holland would have preferred his own favourite, Bill Sullivan, to have been his Deputy when his de facto Deputy retired in 1946. After consulting the members of caucus (for there was no formal election at that stage) Holland found that Holyoake had the numbers. The dominant faction (harkening back to the pre-National Party parties) was Holland’s own, however, which left Holyoake somewhat on the edge, and relationships between the PM and his Deputy were cool (Gustafson, 1997: 136). Nevertheless, when Holland had been persuaded to retire shortly before the 1957 election, Holyoake was unanimously declared the new leader and PM (Jackson, 1978). Holyoake himself had a cabinet full of big beasts – Ralph Hanan, Tom Shand, Peter Gordon, Brian Talboys, Robert Muldoon, and his Deputy, John Marshall –whom he managed by letting them roam, within the boundaries of collective cabinet norms and practices. But he did not hesitate to override their decisions if necessary, and there were some major policy rows. In retrospect it is astonishing that none of his ministers challenged for the

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leadership, especially between 1969 and 1972. But several big beasts became ill or died before the time was right. Moreover Holyoake had retained the trust of the party, which made it difficult for others to compete against him (see Gustafson, 1997: 140), although there was an attempt to get him to resign in 1971. In early 1972 Holyoake finally gave in to the pressure, and Marshall took over. But the latter’s tenure was brief because the National Party lost the election that year and then Muldoon successfully contested the leadership. As noted above, for Muldoon there could be only one big beast, himself. He bullied and corralled possible challengers. Lange managed his big beasts ineffectively, particularly Prebble and Douglas, although neither succeeded him. Palmer was a reluctant PM, having been content as Lange’s Deputy. Bolger’s appointment of the maverick Peters in 1990 was always a risk, but he had a high profile and Bolger wanted a Maori in cabinet. Bolger did not hesitate to get rid of him when the time came, however, as did Jenny Shipley after she had taken over from Bolger. Clark had some strong personalities in cabinet, but none posed a risk. Her senior ministers were loyal to her personally and to the direction of policy. Michael Cullen, her very able and articulate Deputy and Minister of Finance, was not interested in the top job, and Clark quickly rid herself of a potential big beast, John Tamihere, by dismissing him as soon as she had good cause.

Conclusions: Prime ministers and ministerial turnover in Westminster All PMs are vulnerable to agency rent: their agents may shirk their responsibilities or shift policies away from the direction desired by their principals. Delegation is a tricky process and the consequences are not always easily predicted. As these two case studies have shown, PMs in Westminster systems have to make strategic and tactical decisions as to when, and if, to fire shirkers and shifters, and when to reshuffle portfolio responsibilities. When making these decisions, PMs must consider the seriousness of the undesired behaviour, the timing of the next election, the impact on their own public reputation, the impact on the ministry itself, and the effects on their relationships with their parties to whom they are responsible. The NZ and UK PMs discussed here have had to manage the problems that arise from adverse selection. None ever achieved their dream team, partly because they inherited ministers from their predecessors, and partly because they had to heed seniority, a criterion for appointment that might appear to be safe enough but that can lead to poor performance. Further, as we have argued, a PM cannot always ignore the claims of the big beasts who, after appointment, might threaten governmental policy priorities and the tenure of the PM herself. Informal rules about representative criteria (region, ethnicity, gender, ideology) must be borne in mind by PMs, despite the possible adverse effects on ministerial selection.

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Institutional factors structure prime ministerial behaviour, especially ministerial selection and firing. In this, there are major differences between NZ and the UK: the vulnerability of PMs to challenges; whether or not PMs lead single-party majority or coalition governments; whether PMs can pick their own people or must accept their party’s choices; the sizes of the legislatures, and the lengths of the parliamentary terms. Despite the different institutional circumstances under which PMs in these two states construct, manage and reconstruct their ministries, they all have to manage the consequences of adverse selection. Leadership duration and succession are closely bound into the relationships that develop between principal and agent, particularly the ways in which PMs manage the careers of their parliamentary colleagues: appointing ministers, distributing portfolios, reshuffling responsibilities, and firing shirkers and shifters. Institutional factors affecting hiring and firing decisions constrain PMs but each PM has his or her personality and to some extent shape their government team by their own characteristics. The UK and NZ PMs discussed here exhibit distinctive styles in the way in which they perform these tasks, styles that interestingly cut across the institutional and contextual differences, as we demonstrate with our sketches of PMs in both countries. We identified four non-exclusive styles of PMs – butchers, dominators, operators, and consensus seekers – to try to bring some order to our discussion. PMs combine these leadership styles to deal with their ministerial shirkers and policy shifters, to manage and control their ambitious colleagues and to refresh their governments. There is no ideal leadership style. PMs need to adapt to the circumstances in which they find themselves – the cabinet they (partly) inherit, the economic and social circumstances of their era and importantly the problems that arise through the behaviour of their cabinet colleagues. How PMs exercise these judgements and how skilfully they use their style vis-à-vis their cabinet colleagues affects the fates of their governments as well as their own political futures.

Notes 1 We would like to thank participants at the seminar on chapters for their comments especially Marian Simms, John Uhr and Paul ’t Hart. We also thank Anne Gelling. 2 In keeping with usual practice in agency theory we refer to the principal as a ‘she’ and the agent as a ‘he’. 3 The first election held under proportional representation rules was in 1996, but the previous parliamentary term saw many party defections that impacted on government management. 4 Whilst in production a coalition government between the Conservatives and Liberals formed following the May 2010 UK general election. We do not analyse that government in this chapter. 5 UK Labour shadow cabinets have been elected and when taking power PMs have been expected to form their cabinet from the shadow cabinet, but they have moved ministers around or strategically shifted powers across departments. In both the UK

172 The Firing Line: When and Why Do Prime Ministers Fire Ministerial Colleagues? and NZ factions within parties, whilst an obvious constraint, are not as important as in many other countries in terms of cabinet formation. 6 Quigley, Prebble and Douglas all became involved in the right-wing ACT party that supported the National Party in government after the 2008 election. 7 Turia later re-entered Parliament as leader of the Maori Party and supported the National Party after the 2008 election.

Bibliography Aghion, P. and Tirole, J. (1997) ‘Formal and real authority in organizations’, Journal of Political Economy, 105(1), 1–29. Andeweg, R. B. (2000) ‘Ministers as double agents? The delegation process between cabinet and ministers’, European Journal of Political Research, 37, 377–95. Berlinski, S., Dewan, T. and Dowding, K. (2010) ‘Performance evaluation of British ministers’, Journal of Politics, 72(2), 1–13. Brennan, G. and Hamlin, A. (1993) ‘Rationalizing parliamentary systems’, Australian Journal of Political Science, 28(3), 443–57. Bressler-Gonen, R. and Dowding, K. (2009) ‘Shifting and shirking: Political appointments for contracting out services in Israeli local government’, Urban Affairs Review, 44(6), 807–31. Clark, H. (2007) ‘Renewed cabinet line-up’, Press statement, 31 October. Accessed at http://www.beehive.govt.nz/node/31156 Downloaded 26/10/2009. Dowding, K. (2008) ‘Perceptions of leadership’, in P. ’t Hart and J. Uhr (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practice (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 93–102. Dowding, K. and Dumont, P. (2009) ‘Structural and strategic factors affecting the hiring and firing of ministers’, in K. Dowding and P. Dumont (eds) The Selection of Ministers in Europe: Hiring and Firing (London: Routledge), pp. 1–20. Gustafson, B. (1997) ‘Holyoake and the National Party’, in M. Clark (ed.) Sir Keith Holyoake: Towards a Political Biography (Palmerston North: The Dunmore Press). Indridason, I. H. and Kam, C. (2008) ‘Cabinet shuffles and ministerial drift’, British Journal of Political Science, 38(4), 621–56. Jackson, K. (1978) ‘Political leadership and succession in the New Zealand National Party’, in S. Levine (ed.) Politics in New Zealand (Sydney: Allen & Unwin), pp. 161–81. James, C. (1986) The Quiet Revolution (Wellington: Allen & Unwin/Port Nicholson Press). Kam, C. and Indridason, I. H. (2005) ‘The timing of cabinet reshuffles in five parliamentary systems’, Journal of Legislative Studies, 30(3), 327–63. Kiewiet, R. D. and McCubbins, M. (1991) The Logic of Delegation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). King, A. (1994) ‘Ministerial autonomy in Britain’, in M. Laver and K. Shepsle (eds) Cabinet Ministers and Parliamentary Government (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), pp. 203–25. Major, J. (1999) The Autobiography (London: Harper Collins). McLeay, E. (1995) The Cabinet and Political Power in New Zealand (Auckland: Auckland University Press). McLeay, E. (1999) ‘What is the constitutional status of the New Zealand cabinet office manual?’, Public Law Review, 10(1), 11–17. McLeay, E. (2009) ‘Regime change and rule adaptation: Prime Ministers and ministerial dismissals in New Zealand’. International Political Science Association Congress, Santiago, Chile, 12–16 July.

Keith Dowding and Elizabeth McLeay 173 McQueen, H. (1991) The Ninth Floor: Inside the Prime Minister’s Office – A Political Experience (Auckland: Auckland University Press). Rhodes, R. and Weller, P. (2005) ‘Westminster transplanted and Westminster implanted: Exploring political change’, in H. Patapan, J. Wanna and P. Weller (eds) Westminster Legacies: Democracy and Responsible Government in Asia and the Pacific (Sydney: University of South Wales Press), pp. 1–12. Rhodes, R., Wanna, J. and Weller, P. (2009) Comparing Westminster (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Richardson, R. (1995) Making a Difference (Christchurch: Shoal Bay Press). Strøm, K. (2000) ‘Delegation and accountability in parliamentary democracies’, European Journal of Political Research, 37(3), 261–89. Templeton, H. (1995) All Honourable Men: Inside the Muldoon Cabinet 1975–1994 (Auckland: Auckland University Press). Thomas, G. P. (1998) Prime Minister and Cabinet Today (Manchester: Manchester University Press). Wood, A. (1997) ‘Holyoake and the Holyoake years’, in M. Clark (ed.) Sir Keith Holyoake: Towards a Political Biography (Palmerston North: The Dunmore Press).

10 Power Consolidation in Leadership Change Contexts: A Social Identity Perspective Emina Subasˇic´ and Katherine J. Reynolds

Mother: What’s the matter Zoe? Why are you crying? Child: [Zoe, 4 years old, tears streaming down her face] Because I just want Tony Blair to come back and I want him to be Prime Minister. Mother: Why? Child: Because I just do … Mother: Why do you want him to be Prime Minister still? Child: Because I love him. [Sobs.] Mother: But there’s gonna be a new Prime Minister … There’s gonna be a new Prime Minister, darling, called Gordon Brown. Child: I know … Mother: You don’t want him? Child: No, I want Tony Blair … Transcript of a YouTube video titled ‘A very sad day …’, with a caption ‘A 4 year old’s extreme reaction to Tony Blair’s departure as Prime Minister’.1

Introduction Whether or not Zoe’s reaction epitomized the mood of the British nation on the 27 June 2007 is an empirical question.2 Even in the absence of such extreme reactions from the general public, however, there was little doubt that Gordon Brown’s task in succeeding Tony Blair was a difficult one. About the same time in Australia, after a decade as Treasurer and quite a few years of harbouring hopes of becoming the next Liberal Party leader and Prime Minister, it was becoming clear that Peter Costello’s chances of succeeding John Howard were rather slim. Fast-forward to early 2008 and the morning of the apology to Indigenous Australians, Costello may have counted himself a lucky man. Had he succeeded Howard, it would have been him, rather than Brendan Nelson, who had ‘the toughest job in politics’ – to address the nation 174

Emina Subasˇic´ and Katherine J. Reynolds 175

as opposition leader immediately following PM Rudd’s eloquent and moving apology to Indigenous Australians. As Nelson spoke in defence of Howard’s legacy and the Liberal Party’s long-standing opposition to such an apology, thousands of spectators outside Parliament House (and around the country) first booed and then turned their backs to the massive television screens broadcasting his message. In the months that followed, Brendan Nelson’s leadership became increasingly precarious – he was successfully challenged and replaced by Malcolm Turnbull in September 2008 who in turn was toppled in December 2009. What these events make clear is that leadership succession (and transition) in government are often defining moments not only for leaders, but also their political party and national constituencies. As such, contemporary research in political science, political psychology and other disciplines has examined (albeit in a somewhat fragmented fashion) their origins, dynamics and consequences (e.g. Giambatista et al., 2005; Bynander and ’t Hart, 2006). The goal of this volume is to integrate some of these efforts. A key feature of democratic societies when it comes to political leadership is the ‘perpetual demand to legitimise’ (Kane and Patapan, 2008: 32) and this is particularly true in contexts of leadership change. As such, the aim of this chapter is to better understand the (social psychological) processes that affect whether or not leaders will be able to consolidate their power – as influence and (legitimate) authority – in the context of leadership transition and/or succession.

Leadership change as a social identity process Unlike many other political and organizational dynamics, ‘old’ leaders departing and ‘new’ leadership ascending to a position of power readily capture the attention of the broader public. The recent national leadership transition in the United States (from Republican George W. Bush to Democrat Barack Obama) and Australia (from John Howard and the Liberal/National Coalition to Kevin Rudd and the Australian Labor Party) are salient examples. Much of the political and social commentary surrounding these public events has to do with whether or not ‘new’ leaders have ‘what it takes’ for their prospective jobs. Features such as charisma, vision, particular personality characteristics, temperament and behavioural styles are regularly evoked as arguments in support of or seeking to undermine particular candidacies. Such individualistic approaches to leadership feature prominently not only in popular but also social-scientific discourses. It is worthwhile noting, though, that even these judgements about individuals (e.g. Obama as charismatic) are always made in comparison to the available leadership alternatives, including incumbents, as well as in light of the broader national and international, social, political and economic dynamics facing leadership candidates. We have written elsewhere about the growing recognition that leadership cannot be understood in isolation from the relationship between leaders and

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followers (e.g. Turner et al., 2008). At the core of leader-follower relations is a sense of psychological connection in terms of shared social and psychological group memberships, where leaders are those group members who are seen to best embody ‘our’ shared goals, values, beliefs and aspirations (Turner and Haslam, 2001; Reicher et al., 2005). Understanding how such a psychological connection between leaders and followers is created, maintained and lost is fundamental to understanding leadership and leadership change dynamics. In the remainder of this chapter, we propose a framework for understanding leadership transition and succession as group and intergroup phenomena. More specifically, we look at the social identity processes that make it possible for leaders to consolidate their power. Social identity is that aspect of the self derived from one’s membership of social groups and the value or emotional significance attached to those memberships (Tajfel and Turner, 1979). Rather than thinking of ourselves in purely personal or individual terms (e.g. ‘I’, ‘me’), the self can also be defined in terms of contextually relevant or salient (i.e. psychologically meaningful) group memberships (e.g. ‘us Australians’, or ‘us Liberals’). As such, self-perception can be seen as varying along an interpersonalintergroup continuum, so that, across social contexts, people shift between defining themselves as individuals (i.e. in terms of their personal identity) to self-definition as group members (i.e. in terms of their social identity). Those people with whom one shares a relevant or salient social identity are seen as ingroup members, while those excluded from group membership (on some relevant comparative dimension) are seen as outgroup members. For example, if the relevant comparative context concerns political orientation, thinking of oneself as a ‘left’ or ‘cosmopolitan’ rather than ‘right’ or ‘nationalist’ voter makes sense. As such, the emergence and definition of one’s social identity is a contrastive and comparative process, so that one’s ingroup tends to be defined with reference to a relevant outgroup (e.g. left vs. right, men vs. women, Republicans vs. Democrats). Defining the relevant outgroup also comes to clarify and redefine who is included in the ingroup – and vice versa. Furthermore, social identity or self is hierarchically organized so that lower-level distinctions between groups (e.g. Democrat vs. Republican) become less important or relevant when one identifies with a relevant higher-level, superordinate identity (e.g. as Americans). Such a shift in self-definition is directly linked to followers’ perception of the social context – whether it is seen in terms of intergroup (e.g. factions within a political party; interparty conflict) or intragroup (e.g. intraparty unity; national solidarity) relations. This insight from self-categorization theory (Turner, 1982, 1985; Turner et al., 1987) has been applied extensively in the area of prejudice reduction, for example, as it has been shown that encouraging re-categorization (e.g. through intergroup contact) of those initially seen to be outgroup members as included in some relevant, higher-level ingroup, reduces inter-(sub)group

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animosity and prejudice, and enhances helping and cooperative relations (Gaertner et al., 1993; Dovidio et al., 1997; Levine et al., 2005). By implication, therefore, creating social division (within or between groups) – for example, by re-defining the relevant identity so that some ingroup members are no longer seen as part of ‘us’ – is likely to attenuate cooperation and instead enhance conflict, animosity and prejudice. We will come back to this point in discussing how leadership processes affect whether selfdefinition takes place at a subgroup or superordinate level and what the implications are for the nature of intergroup relations but also leader’s capacity to influence. What is important to clarify now is that ingroup/outgroup and intragroup/intergroup distinctions are important to consider because we also know that influence – in the form of capacity to shape other’s views and beliefs and exercise legitimate authority – flows from shared identity and disappears when such an identity is severed (e.g. Haslam and Platow, 2001; Turner, 2005; Subasˇic´ et al., forthcoming). So, when people think of themselves as members of particular social groups (i.e. self-categorize), they are more likely to be influenced by others who also share their social (psychological) group membership (Turner et al., 1987; Turner, 1991). It is now well-documented, for example, that leaders who are seen to share the relevant social identity with followers (group membership, but also norms, values and beliefs that define who ‘we’ are) have greater legitimacy, support and endorsement, but also capacity to influence followers’ beliefs and attitudes (Haslam and Platow, 2001; Haslam et al., 2001; Platow and Van Knippenberg, 2001; Duck and Fielding, 2003; Van Knippenberg and Van Knippenberg, 2005; Subasˇic´ et al., forthcoming). Centrally, which particular ingroup member will have the greatest capacity to shape the group’s goals and objectives – in other words, exercise leadership – is a function of a meta-contrastive judgement made within a particular group but with an eye to the broader context of intergroup relations. As such, leadership is a function of being seen to best represent ‘our’ goals, norms and values compared to other group members. Such group goals, norms and values are emerging as important and self-defining (who ‘we’ are) given the group’s position within the broader context of intergroup relations (who ‘they’ are; the presence of external threats to the group’s status or wellbeing by ‘others’). The concept of prototypicality is meant to capture the extent to which a particular group member is perceived as embodying the relevant (ingroup) norms, values and beliefs given the social reality of group life and intergroup relations. Leadership influence stems from a shared belief between leaders and followers that a particular action is valid, appropriate and right and is seen as the strongest form of power (see Turner, 2005). Like influence, legitimate authority has shared social identity at its core, so that followers support a leader’s position and comply with their requests because of a shared belief

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that a leader has the right (conferred by the group) to make particular decisions, even though one may not be fully persuaded by or agree with their view. Finally, coercion involves forcing others to act against their will and is closest to the way in which power is defined within the ‘standard’ view. Coercion is seen as the weakest form of power as it has the capacity to sever the shared identity between leaders and followers and as such undermine influence (e.g. see Subasˇic´ et al., forthcoming). The social identity analysis of power is particularly relevant in explaining how influence and legitimate authority are gained, maintained and lost – a key question when it comes to understanding leadership change.

Leadership change, social identity and power consolidation dynamics Influence or persuasion, as well as legitimate authority, are based on the perception of shared identity or psychological group membership between the source and target of power. When it comes to power consolidation, therefore, those leadership strategies that enhance a shared identity with followers will also consolidate and enhance a leader’s power. More specifically, within the social identity perspective leadership is conceptualized as relative influence and power within a group where leaders are those group members perceived as relatively more prototypical or representative of ‘who we are’ and as such more influential (Turner and Haslam, 2001; Haslam, 2004; Turner et al., 2008). People follow leaders because they embody and define ‘our’ norms, values and beliefs in a particular social context, including how ‘we’ should relate to ‘them’ given the reality of social relations. Those leaders who violate followers’ understanding of either the relevant social identity (i.e. ‘who we are’) or social reality are likely to engender opposition and challenge to their position (Reicher et al., 2005). However, rather than simply reflecting the relevant group values and beliefs, leaders are ‘identity entrepreneurs’ who actively seek to shape the group identity in a way that maintains and strengthens their position (Reicher and Hopkins, 1996a, 1996b, 2001; see also Subasˇic´ et al., 2008). In this process, leaders actively construct and re-define not only who is included in the relevant ‘us’ (identity or category boundary) but also what it means to be ‘us’ (identity content or meaning). Far from being confined to the rhetorical redefinition of the relevant ingroup identity, leaders can be active agents in the creation and exacerbation of distinctions and tensions with outgroups as well as the creation of solidarity and shared purpose amongst erstwhile adversaries. Leaders at times resort to strategies that capitalize on social division and conflict. For example, it could be argued that the ‘politics of division’ (e.g. ‘playing the race card’, ‘fear campaigns’) is fundamentally about creating social conflict through the exclusion of some relevant ‘other’. Leaders may be particularly

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likely to do so when faced with threat, challenge and the possibility of being ousted. Equally, however, leaders may emphasize the rhetoric of unity and solidarity with the aim of transcending existing intergroup conflict as an integral part of asserting and consolidating their leadership. Far from being just agents of confrontation (e.g. Rabbie and Bekkers, 1978) leaders can be key forces in ‘bridging the divide’ and bringing about greater intergroup harmony (e.g. Pittinsky and Simon, 2007; Pittinsky, 2009). To understand leadership consolidation following transition or succession more fully, it is useful to consider these dynamics as interdependent and cooccurring (Subasˇic´ et al., 2009a). From a social identity perspective, division into an ‘us’ and ‘them’ and ‘their’ exclusion simultaneously strengthens the shared identity between leaders and the rest of ‘us’ as followers (i.e. enhances ingroup solidarity). It thereby mobilizes ingroup support to advance a particular agenda. But how is such division achieved in the first place? Social identities emerge and are defined through social comparison. By changing the comparative dimension along, for example, racial, class or gender lines the meaning and memberships of relevant social categories are altered. As a result, erstwhile allies (e.g. Whites, middle classes, men) may redefine themselves as one another’s adversaries – and vice versa. Social comparison can also vary with changes in the relevant comparison outgroup. What ‘being (an) Australian’ is taken to mean, therefore partly depends on whether one thinks of Australia in relation to say, the US, Indonesia or France. Modifying the comparator or the context of comparison are social creativity strategies, traditionally recognized within social identity theory as an effective way for disadvantaged group members to see their group in a more positive light by altering the elements of the relevant social comparative context (Tajfel and Turner, 1979). Social creativity – changing the comparative dimension, the values assigned to the group attributes, or the comparison outgroup – is also an influence process through which (emerging) leadership can mobilize (or de-mobilize) different groups of followers in line with particular agendas and projects. For example, when John F. Kennedy, standing in front of a huge crowd at West-Berlin’s city hall declared that ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’, he was sending a powerful message to both West and East. Likewise, one of the key challenges for Barack Obama as both candidate and president has been to maintain the focus on those social comparative dimensions and definitions of who ‘we’ are that would strengthen support for him and his policies (e.g. class, egalitarianism), while downplaying the relevance of other dimensions that could potentially divide the constituency in ways detrimental to his leadership (e.g. race, immigrant). Furthermore, ‘we’ or ‘us’ is always defined with reference to relevant others who are not ‘us’ – and vice versa. The interdependence and reciprocity between inclusion and exclusion is rarely considered. While it is recognized that strategies such as ‘playing the race card’, for example, seek to create or

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exacerbate social fault lines, their ultimate (and overlooked) purpose is to unite and create particular forms of solidarity at the level of the ingroup. Such solidarity, we argue, is achieved not through an ‘us’ vs. ‘them’ divide per se but a consequent and simultaneous re-definition of ingroup membership and the associated goals, values, norms and beliefs of what it means to be ‘us’. Equally, emphasizing core ingroup goals and values (e.g. what it means to be Australian) not only can enhance group cohesiveness and unity around who ‘we’ are and what ‘we’ do. It also clearly denotes that those who are out of line with ‘our’ goals and values are excluded from group membership (by using a values test to determine who becomes an Australian citizen, for example). Strategies such as ‘divide and conquer’ have been traditionally understood as primarily targeting one’s political opponents, seeking to divide them on a particular issue and as such undermine their capacity to act as a united front (Fear, 2007). However, leaders can also (at least attempt to) mobilize ingroup solidarity and support by creating and/or redefining the relevant ingroup vs. outgroup distinctions through creation and exclusion of particular outgroups (Subasˇic´ et al., 2009b). Ideally, such strategies will not only invigorate the commitment of existing supporters but also cut across ‘traditional’ distinctions to extend the support base and include in the relevant ‘us’ those group members who otherwise may be reluctant to endorse the leader. When coupled with perceptions of outgroup as threatening to ‘our’ way of life, exclusion not only serves to clarify who ‘we’ are and what ‘we’ stand for but also positions the leader as the ‘saviour’ or defender of the group’s identity. Prime minister John Howard’s move to send specialized military units to prevent asylum seekers from reaching Australian immigration zone shortly before the 2001 federal election is one example of an incumbent leader in self-styled ‘saviour’ mode. Many have argued that this move, made in response to a high profile incident aboard one ship carrying asylum seekers around that time played a major role in Howard’s electoral victory (cf. McAllister, 2003). It not only solidified the support of those Liberal voters already opposed to immigration, but also others who might have supported Labor in a different context but found their border protection attitudes (and fears, see De Castella et al., 2009) mirrored in Howard’s ‘tough stance on illegal immigrants’. Outgroup exclusion and derogation will serve the purpose of enhancing a leader’s influence and authority only to the extent that they are seen to be in line with the shared norms, values and beliefs that define who ‘we’ are and, as such, are seen to be legitimate. Therefore, paradoxically, the rhetoric of ingroup victimization is often accompanied by a parallel emphasis on ingroup strength and virtue (Reicher et al., 2008). Glorifying the ingroup serves to justify radical ‘rescue’ strategies advocated by leaders, so that outgroup marginalization, and in some cases annihilation, becomes a legitimate way of defending ingroup interests. As such, the same leadership behaviours,

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decisions and policies that seem coercive and dictatorial from an ‘outsider’ perspective, are likely to be seen as justified and legitimate by an ingroup audience comprised of those who share a leader’s vision. When outgroup exclusion is successfully legitimized as being in the best interests of the ingroup, it strengthens the shared social identity between the leader and followers while simultaneously curtailing potential challenges to leadership and, therefore, consolidates one’s power and influence. This approach is particularly useful when the excluded ‘other’ comprises vocal opponents of the leader’s policies and practices. For example, John Howard’s continued emphasis on the distinction between the so-called ‘elites’ and ‘ordinary Australians’ allowed him to effectively and ‘legitimately’ marginalize some of the most articulate critics of his regime as ‘out of touch’ with the proverbial ‘Aussie battler’ and as merely standing up for ‘political correctness’. Importantly, such rhetoric also allowed Howard to position himself as the embodiment of the beliefs and values, views and wishes, of the ‘silent majority’ of ‘ordinary Australians’ (Brett, 2005). Hence the politics of division is equally about building solidarity and cohesiveness among existing and newly recruited members of the constituency. As a ‘them’ is created and excluded from ‘us’, who ‘we’ are is crystallized and solidified in line with a particular agenda. Who will be divided and who united, who included or excluded, depends not so much on the individual whims of leaders but rather on the relevant social context (the groups involved and the relationships between them) in which leadership (and its transition and succession) takes place. Leaders’ agency is constrained by the nature of relevant intra and intergroup relations within which they operate, as well as by the structural constraints and opportunities provided by the institutions and offices they inhabit. We revisit these points in more detail below.

Leadership transition and succession: A social identity perspective As defined in the introductory chapter (’t Hart and Uhr, this volume), leadership transition in government arises out of interparty competition. At its core lies the transfer of governing power from one group of hands to another (e.g. Democrats replacing Republicans). In contrast, succession often emerges out of intraparty competition between incumbent leaders and those aspiring to leadership. It can take place when a party is in as well as out of elected office (with the latter being more likely, see Laing and ’t Hart, this volume). Leadership transition and succession can also be usefully considered as social identity processes through which a shift in power (i.e. influence, legitimate authority) takes place. As we saw earlier, leadership consolidation can be achieved both through a ‘politics of division’ and a ‘politics of solidarity’. Furthermore, these social

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identity processes take place across different social identity contexts involving both intragroup and intergroup relations. To understand leadership change, therefore, both intra and intergroup factors need to be taken into account. This includes in particular the dynamics of shift towards greater (intra and intergroup) division and conflict, or towards (intra and intergroup) solidarity and cohesion. Figure 10.1 applies this reasoning to understanding leadership transition and succession. It highlights the distinction between pre- and post-transition/succession contexts. Escalation of intergroup and interparty conflict tends to precede transition, while when it comes to successions such conflict is more likely to be confined to the intragroup, intraparty level. Let us reflect a bit more on Figure 10.1’s implications. As part of leadership succession the ‘politics of division’ are likely to involve leadership contests within the party and inter-factional conflict. In contrast, solidarity Division

Pre-Transition: Inter-group contest/conflict (e.g. open inter-party competition in pre-electoral contexts)

Pre-Succession: Within-group conflict (e.g. intra-party factionalism, leadership challenges from within the party)

Inter-group

Intra-group Transition/Succession

Post-Transition: Superordinate unity (e.g. ‘I am your leader too’; maximizing ‘majority’ in post-electoral contexts)

Post-Succession: Intra-group unity and cohesion (e.g. party acting as a united front; ‘up to the job’)

Solidarity Figure 10.1 Social identity dynamics of leadership consolidation preceding and following transition and succession

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emerges through focus on shared party goals and transcending factionalism, as well as a consequence of interparty rivalry. As such, when it comes to leadership succession, the processes of division/solidarity take place at a lower, more intragroup, level of analysis. In transition contexts, however, the same (and at times co-occurring) processes involve higher-order or superordinate identities and intergroup relations. The leadership contest is one between political parties and therefore focused on highlighting divergent agendas and visions for who ‘we’ are as a nation or state. Post-transition, the emphasis may be on national unity, which can come about as a result of international conflict (e.g. Bush and ‘war on terror), but also through emphasis on the goals and values that ‘we all share’ (e.g. as in Obama’s presidential victory speech). Transitions thus generally involve highly salient intergroup (e.g. interparty) boundaries between perennial political opponents. Here, the mass public is the audience of interest – their malleable but contextually constrained understandings of the leadership candidates and themselves as group members shape the outcome of the interparty contest. In contrast, successions take place on the (more semi-public) intraparty stage. They may or may not involve an element of interfactional competition within the party (whether or not there is open competition often depends on the mode of succession, as discussed below). Therefore, shifting a level of analysis is likely to reveal both higher-order intragroup solidarity as part of transition and lower-level intergroup conflict taking place as part of succession. To understand more precisely the nature of transition/succession dynamics in terms of intra and intergroup division and solidarity, it is necessary to consider the temporal (pre-, post-) dimension more specifically. As noted, pre-transition and pre-succession contexts are more likely to be marked by (intra and intergroup) division. Transitions are preceded by fierce interparty contest as part of elections, while successions may involve (equally fierce) inter-factional division over divergent leadership loyalties. In contrast, a move towards greater (intra and intergroup) solidarity is likely to emerge in post-transition/succession, as parties and government seek to ‘get their act together’ and demonstrate to their constituencies that they are indeed ‘up to the task’. Furthermore, pre-transition/succession dynamics involve incumbent leaders seeking to consolidate their own and the party’s position in the face of potential leadership change – if such power is consolidated successfully, transition/succession may not take place. The weakening of the incumbent’s influence and authority, while sufficient and perhaps necessary for transition/succession to take place, may not be enough for the aspiring and ‘new’ leaders to gain and maintain influence (Subasˇic´ et al., 2009). For posttransition/succession leaders, there is also the important task of crafting and solidifying their psychological bond – a sense of shared identity – with followers, both at the ‘elite’ (party, Cabinet) level, but also with their wider

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constituencies. The politics of intragroup and intergroup division – and their relevant social identity dynamics – are likely to be the hallmark of power consolidation processes preceding succession and transition, respectively. In contrast, the politics of solidarity are more prominent immediately following leadership change. With the electoral cycle more fully in ‘governing’ mode, (government) leaders may be able to ‘afford’ unpopular and potentially divisive decisions (e.g. Tony Blair’s and John Howard’s 2003 decisions to commit their countries to the Iraq War). Immediately following transition, however, crafting higher-order shared identities and identity meanings is more central. For example, in his victory speech Barack Obama sought to reconcile political division by explicitly acknowledging Republican Party’s values as those that are shared by the nation as a whole: Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House – a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, we are not enemies, but friends … though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn – I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too (Barack Obama, presidential victory speech, November 2008). What is also clear from this excerpt, however, is that Obama is using the rhetoric of social unity to distinguish his leadership from that of his predecessors. In terms of social identity, this is also a process involving exclusion of ‘them’ which solidifies an ‘us’. Here, Obama is expanding the shared identity and maximizing the ingroup ‘majority’ by redefining intergroup boundaries so that the ‘outgroup’ now consists primarily of one’s predecessor and his innermost inner circle (see also Reicher and Hopkins, 1996b for a similar approach in the context of Margaret Thatcher’s leadership). The extent to which leaders can build solidarity and extend one’s support base can also be constrained, however, by the reality of social conflict in inter-(sub)group relations that often takes place both pre- and post-leadership transition. In this context, one way to consolidate power is to maximize the extent to which particular messages, decisions and policies can be synchronized to appeal (at least on some level) to multiple constituencies. One way to

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achieve this is to combine a rhetoric of unity with a clear recognition (rather than obfuscation) of subgroup differences. During the 2008 campaign, for example, Barack Obama’s skilfully handled his opponents’ efforts to create political division along racial lines using such a strategy: I believe deeply that we cannot solve the challenges of our time unless we solve them together – unless we perfect our union by understanding that we may have different stories, but we hold common hopes; that we may not look the same and we may not have come from the same place, but we all want to move in the same direction – towards a better future for our children and our grandchildren (Barack Obama, ‘A more perfect union’ speech, March 2008). Therefore, in these examples the rhetoric of solidarity – the recognition of subgroup differences in the context of a broader framework which celebrates and constructively builds on such differences – is being used both as a pre-transition strategy to redefine the relevant dimension of social comparison (e.g. class rather than race), but also as a post-transition attempt at national solidarity that crosses traditional political party divides. In Australia, the newly elected Prime Minister Kevin Rudd chose the first act of his leadership to be an official apology to Indigenous Australians. A highly anticipated historical moment for the nation as a whole in terms of Indigenous – Non-Indigenous relations, the apology as noted earlier also signalled a clear departure from the previous government’s stance on this highly divisive issue. The significance of the speech for the arguments presented in this chapter, concerns the way in which Rudd managed to avoid both ‘assimilationist rhetoric’ (which his predecessor was frequently accused of) and further division within the Non-Indigenous community concerning whether the apology was needed in the first place. Instead, the speech recognized both the reality of Indigenous – Non-Indigenous relations (e.g. history of oppression and dispossession, disadvantage, etc.), as well as a shared purpose and future aspirations for ‘all Australians’ (including NonIndigenous Australians): We today take this first step by acknowledging the past and laying claim to a future that embraces all Australians. A future where this Parliament resolves that the injustices of the past must never, never happen again. A future where we harness the determination of all Australians, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, to close the gap that lies between us in life expectancy, educational achievement and economic opportunity … A future based on mutual respect, mutual resolve and mutual responsibility. A future where all Australians, whatever their origins, are truly equal partners, with equal opportunities and with an equal stake in

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shaping the next chapter in the history of this great country, Australia (Kevin Rudd, apology to Indigenous Australians, February 2008). Like transition, leadership succession is also frequently characterized by the need to ‘move on’ from the leadership contest within the party and towards greater party cohesiveness and unity. Seeking to achieve power consolidation through intragroup solidarity in the post-succession period may have the dual benefit of enhancing a leader’s influence while marginalizing those within the party who are opposed to change. Post-succession solidarity is essential to demonstrate to the broader support base that the party is able to rise above factionalism and act as a united front in face of future challenges (whether in government or opposition). Additionally, for ‘new’ post-succession leaders it may also be important to introduce novel agendas and projects, but in a way that does not further fragment the party and enhance factional allegiances. Mode of succession is particularly relevant here as hard-won leadership battles are likely to allow greater scope for innovation and more ‘radical’ policy directions. It matters, for example, whether leadership succession is a product of decisive personal victories or a matter of coincidence (e.g. Truman and Johnson inheriting the US presidency from a deceased predecessor). Therefore, while the succession ‘stage’ is often an intragroup one (played out within the confines of the party), it is nevertheless influenced by the leader’s and the party’s positioning within the broader, intergroup context. Recent (2009 and 2010) leadership successions within the Australian Liberal party, for example, were triggered by two factors. Firstly, the view that the incumbent leader was no longer able to articulate a shared vision for the broader constituency and mobilize the public for the party’s agenda (hence the mid-2008 succession from Howard’s successor Brendan Nelson to the ‘more charismatic’ Malcolm Turnbull). Secondly, the perception that an incumbent was championing an ‘outgroup’ cause while disregarding ‘ingroup’ concerns and interests (hence the late 2009 succession from Malcolm Turnbull to Tony Abbott, following Turnbull’s failed attempt to get his party behind his willingness to do a deal with the Labor government on emissions trading). The second example, in particular, is one where the opposition leader’s bipartisan stance – which he attempted to frame in terms of shared, national interests – was seen as a betrayal of more narrowly defined ‘ingroup’ or subgroup (the Liberal Party and its core constituencies) interests by many of his shadow ministers. It is also important to recognize, however, that these inter and intragroup dynamics are facilitated and constrained by the relevant institutional context and nature of the office that the leaders inhabit. Political leadership takes place both at the ‘elite’ level and the mass-mediated public stage, so that leaders are continually positioning themselves in relation to multiple audiences. Contextual and role constraints will shape leaders’ actions in

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significant ways. It matters, for example, whether or not a prime minister is leading a multi-party coalition or a single party government. Compared to leading a cohesive, single-party government (e.g. as in the case of John Howard and Paul Keating), coalition leadership cannot afford to be as partisan in terms of content or style. Similarly, the tasks of an incoming opposition leader are different from those of an incoming prime minister. Ongoing need to campaign and position the party for the next election may be a focus for an incoming opposition leader, but less of a priority for a new prime minister who may be more focused on the transition from campaigning to governing. Similarly, leaders’ relations with the mass public are affected by external events and processes that are (at least partly) outside their control. For example, at different points in the electoral cycle, leaders have more or less flexibility to push particular (un)popular policy agendas and messages. Facing the possibility of transition (i.e. elections), both the incumbent and aspiring leadership are in ‘campaign mode’ and will be motivated to resort to messages and identities that mobilize as large a public as possible. In this context, attempts to redefine ‘traditional’ divides (left vs. right, Labor vs. Liberal) abound, as in Liberal Opposition Leader Tony Abbott’s surprise announcement to increase taxes for high-profit businesses to fund a generous maternity leave scheme. For Abbott, the prospect of infuriating some of the ‘party faithful’ (i.e. the business community) and his own shadow ministers was a risk worth taking given the opportunity to maximize the female/traditionally Labor vote across the nation. Conversely, drawing the ‘traditional’ divides too sharply is likely to backfire as it is unlikely to secure the ‘majority’ support required in election contexts. Maverick election ticket stalwarts Barry Goldwater or Sarah Palin, for example, galvanized the conservative Republican faithful, but by drawing the ingroup-outgroup barriers so starkly and narrowly they set themselves and their parties up for electoral losses. While significant contemporary events (e.g. a country going into war or facing a major crisis) present particular leadership challenges at all times, their effect is amplified in leadership change contexts where the need to consolidate power is paramount. Social creativity strategies are particularly central here as power consolidation rests on having the skill to ‘read’ and re-interpret novel events in a way that will resonate with the relevant constituency and (simultaneously) discount alternative interpretations. Which dimensions or aspects of the event are emphasized, what understandings and emotional responses are suggested as appropriate constitute the process of (re)defining who ‘we’ are in a given context and how ‘we’ should relate to others. George W. Bush’s response to the events surrounding September 11 and John Howard’s rhetoric surrounding the Tampa crisis (and later the Iraq war, see De Castella et al., 2009) are examples of leaders’ ability to successfully leverage contemporary events for particular political

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gain by shaping followers views of themselves and others in the relevant social context. To consolidate power in leadership change contexts, leaders need to be able to manage institutional and broader social and historical constraints and opportunities in a way that solidifies their position at the core of who ‘we’ are. Power becomes more difficult to hold on to as relevant social identities are redefined in ways that allow alternative sources of influence and leadership to emerge and re-cast who ‘we’ are in their own image.

Summary and conclusion Building on current understandings of leadership within social psychology and the social identity perspective in particular, this chapter focused on the interplay between intra- and intergroup processes involved in leadership change. A novel framework was offered in which power consolidation dynamics involved in leadership transition and succession can be seen as a function of relevant social identity contexts (intergroup, intragroup; interparty, intraparty) and processes (division, solidarity). The social identity processes in leadership change contexts (pre- and post-transition, pre- and post-succession) are not mutually exclusive. Rather they can be considered as (horizontally) inter-dependent, so that division and exclusion simultaneously produce solidarity and inclusion. They are also (vertically) co-occurring, so there can be parallel divisive and solidary processes occurring at different levels of action and analysis, e.g. the party organization vs. the voting public. Finally, we considered how institutional, electoral and socio-historical factors interact with social identity processes to shape leadership change. It could be argued that the politics of solidarity and division are familiar responses of leaders seeking to consolidate their position at times of change. However, to understand when and why such strategies may help leaders to achieve their desired objectives (and when they may backfire), it is necessary to move beyond leader-centred approaches and towards an analysis of leadership as a group and, importantly, intergroup process. When leadership is seen to be about a sense of shared collective meaning and purpose between leaders and followers – where leaders embody ‘our’ shared norms, values and beliefs given the social reality of intergroup relations – it becomes possible to understand the process by which the politics of division and solidarity serve to consolidate or undermine one’s influence, authority and power.

Notes 1 Posted on 27 June 2007, the day Gordon Brown succeeded Tony Blair as the Prime Minister of the UK. Accessed at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEfYI94LzDs. 2 The writing of this chapter was financially supported by funding from the Australian Research Council for two Discovery Projects (DP0663314, DP1095319).

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190 Power Consolidation in Leadership Change Contexts: A Social Identity Perspective Reicher, S., Haslam, S. A. and Hopkins, N. (2005) ‘Social identity and the dynamics of leadership: Leaders and followers as collaborative agents in the transformation of social reality’, Leadership Quarterly, 16(4), 547–68. Reicher, S., Haslam, S. A. and Rath, R. (2008) ‘Making a virtue of evil: A five-step social identity model of the development of collective hate’, Social and Personality Psychology Compass, 2(3), 1313–44. Reicher, S. and Hopkins, N. (1996a) ‘Seeking influence through characterizing selfcategories: An analysis of anti-abortionist rhetoric’, British Journal of Social Psychology, 35(2), 297–311. Reicher, S. and Hopkins, N. (1996b) ‘Self-category constructions in political rhetoric: An analysis of Thatcher’s and Kinnock’s speeches concerning the British miners’ strike (1984–5)’, European Journal of Social Psychology, 26(3), 353–71. Reicher, S. and Hopkins, N. (2001) Self and Nation (London: Sage). Subasˇic´, E., Reynolds, K. J. and Turner, J. C. (2008) ‘The political solidarity model of social change: Dynamics of self-categorization in intergroup power relations’, Personality and Social Psychology Review, 12(4), 330–52. Subasˇic´, E., Reynolds, K. J., ’t Hart, P., Reicher, S. D. and Haslam, S. A. (2009a) ‘Leadership, social identity and the dynamics of influence in intergroup relations: A new understanding of social continuity and social change’. Unpublished Australian Research Council Discovery Project Application, Australian National University. Subasˇic´, E., Turner, J. C., and Reynolds, K. J. (2009b) ‘How leaders can redefine intergroup relations to shape ingroup identity and consolidate power’. Paper presented at the International Society for Political Psychology (ISPP) Annual Scientific Meeting, Dublin, 14–17 July. Subasˇic´, E., Reynolds, K. J., Turner, J. C., Haslam, S. A. and Veenstra, K. (forthcoming) ‘Leadership, power and the use of surveillance: Implications of shared social identity for leaders’ capacity to influence’, Leadership Quarterly. Tajfel, H. and Turner, J. C. (1979) ‘An integrative theory of intergroup conflict’, in W. G. Austin and S. Worchel (eds) The Social Psychology of Intergroup Relations (Monterey, California: Brooks Cole). Turner, J. C. (1982) ‘Towards a cognitive redefinition of the social group’, in H. Tajfel (ed.) Social Identity and Intergroup Relations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Turner, J. C. (1985) ‘Social categorization and the self-concept: A social cognitive theory of group behaviour’, in E. J. Lawler (ed.) Advances in Group Processes, vol. 2 (Greenwich, Conn.: JAI Press), pp. 77–122. Turner, J. C. (1991) Social Influence (Buckingham: Open University Press). Turner, J. C. (2005) ‘Explaining the nature of power: A three-process theory’, European Journal of Social Psychology, 35(1), 1–22. Turner, J. C. and Haslam, S. A. (2001) ‘Social identity, organizations and leadership’, in M. E. Turner (ed.) Groups at Work: Theory and Research (New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates), pp. 25–65. Turner, J. C., Hogg, M. A., Oakes, P. J., Reicher, S. D. and Wetherell, M. S. (1987) Rediscovering the Social Group: A Self-Categorization Theory (Oxford: Blackwell). Turner, J. C., Reynolds, K. J. and Subasˇic´, E. (2008) ‘Identity confers power: A new view of leadership in social psychology’, in J. Uhr and P. ’t Hart (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practices (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 57–72. Van Knippenberg, B. and Van Knippenberg, D. (2005) ‘Leadership self-sacrifice and leadership effectiveness: The moderating role of leader prototypicality’, Journal of Applied Psychology, 90(1), 25–37.

11 Building Trust at the Beginning of a New Leadership Role: The Role of Learning and Collaboration Paul Atkins

Entering a new public manager’s role The nature of public sector management and leadership is changing. To address whole-of-government and whole-of-society challenges, public sector organizations are exploring more collaborative forms of leadership (Alford and Hughes, 2008; Getha-Taylor, 2008). Leadership, particularly at senior levels, is becoming more about influencing across boundaries, taking broader and more multiple perspectives and about recognizing and integrating complexity (Hooijberg and Schneider, 2001; Karp and Helgø, 2008). And in public organizations in particular, there are increasing demands for transparency and high ethical standards from leaders. This chapter explores how middle to senior managers in the public sector might begin a new leadership role in such a way that they a) recognize and learn about the complexity of the challenges they face and b) build trusting collaborative relationships with staff and stakeholders from the beginning. In complex, multi-stakeholder environments such as those that face most public sector managers, learning and building trust are critical for effectiveness. Subasˇic´ and Reynolds (this volume) focus on ways in which creating clear differentiation between identity groups may aid the new leader in developing their power base. In contrast, covering managerial rather than political successions, this chapter emphasizes processes of integration rather than differentiation, focusing on developing trust and learning. It seeks to develop an approach to succession that is less reactive and more responsive than that usually adopted by default in most complex organizations, public as well as private. The period of succession into a new leadership role is critical for establishing trust and credibility in the role of the leader. Just as the new leader can see with fresh eyes, they also receive heightened attention from their managers, peers and subordinates. It is a rare opportunity to learn, both for the 191

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leader and for their colleagues and the organization as a whole. Used well, the ‘honeymoon’ period can be a uniquely productive time for examining old assumptions, creating new alliances and using heightened scrutiny to model desired changes in organizational culture (Appelbaum and Valero, 2007). But there are also substantial risks during the time of entry into a new leadership role. This chapter is focused on one of those risks: The tendency for new leaders under stress to process information privately rather than collaboratively. The chapter begins with a review of the situational, cognitive and emotional demands upon a new leader in the middle to senior ranks of the public service. It then describes how one natural consequence of these demands is a tendency for new leaders to process information privately. After that, the risks and benefits of private and collaborative processing are explored with reference to two key criteria for a successful transition: learning and building trust. A practical, planned approach to commencing a new role is then presented and evaluated in the context of the public service.

The demands of a new leadership role The newly appointed leader in the public service faces significant situational, cognitive and emotional demands. The situation often requires the new leader solves immediate and pressing operational problems quickly. For example, one of my coaching clients was told during an interview for a new middle management role that she was the ‘silver bullet’ and that she ‘had been brought in to fix all that had gone before and to make a dysfunctional area functional’. New leaders are naturally proud of their abilities and determined to make a positive difference so it is natural to narrow their attention to providing immediate solutions. In many public service agencies, this tendency is further supported by a culture that rewards ‘heroic’ leaders who offer solutions instead of questions and problem statements. Reward structures and probationary periods are such that the most salient task for a new leader is to impress upwards rather than build relationships down and out. For example, in the Australian Public Service framework, the competency ‘Achieves Results’ is sometimes seen as the only one that really matters (Australian Public Service Commission, 2004). Furthermore, in situations with rapid turnover of job roles, there seems little point fostering long-term relationships with staff and stakeholders when relationships are likely to change within a relatively short period. In short, the context for a new leader in the public service often involves too little time, too much to learn, pressing problems created by others but usually with little agreement as to the nature or extent of the problems; uncertainty regarding who to trust; heightened scrutiny from managers,

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peers and subordinates; limited scope to make decisions independently with numerous, complex connecting elements and strong demands to ‘hit the ground running’. These contextual factors obviously place significant emotional demands on the new leader. Even if the leader is one who thrives under pressure, significant elements of this context are likely to be perceived as threatening or potentially threatening. In situations of perceived threat, we appear to be ‘programmed’ to focus attention and act rapidly and automatically (Fredrickson, 2000). This is the so-called fight-flight response, a sophisticated combination of cognitive, emotional and somatic reactions leading to rapid and automatic action to reduce threat (Sapolsky, 1995). From an evolutionary perspective, narrowed attention and rapid reactions are necessary to deal with threatening situations. However this pattern of response may be sub-optimal in modern complex environments where situational awareness, informed problem framing and stakeholder relationships are crucial. Finally new leaders often face significant cognitive demands. In complex environments with multiple elements and non-linear relationships, human beings appear to be biased towards rapidly seeking to trial possible solutions rather than spending time clarifying and defining problems and goals (Dörner, 1996). One reason why this occurs is that we wish to protect our sense of competence, and exposing ourselves to the uncertainty and ambiguity of complex issues and relationships feels deeply uncomfortable. Furthermore, public servants are not rewarded for professing ignorance and so are likely to rapidly, and even unconsciously, frame issues in such a way that they have solutions ready to hand. Dörner (1996) refers to this automatic tendency to see a problem in terms of known solutions as ‘methodism’. The following case history illustrates this tendency: John was the new Branch Head of the HR department for a major Australian government agency. He came to the position having been acclaimed for a highly successful change initiative in a smaller agency where he dramatically increased the amount and scope of training that staff received. After an initial ‘meet and greet’ with a variety of stakeholders, he noticed clear capability deficits and he formed the opinion that what was needed was an increase in the amount and variety of training. This opinion was only reinforced following his discussions with the training unit. John knew he was well placed to use training as a major lever for change. His connections to a variety of training companies meant he knew the industry and he was himself a fantastic trainer. In the first days of his tenure, he called his staff together and clearly articulated his vision for what could be accomplished by improving the skills and capabilities of the entire agency. Although there were some murmurings about all the other work that needed to be done, in general his staff were enthusiastic about the possibilities for new challenges, getting beyond their procedural work and for engaging

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more with the rest of the agency. In those first days, John quickly established his authority as an energetic, clear-headed and hard-working leader offering a new and exciting direction and identity for the role of HR in the agency. Unfortunately within six months, the gloss had worn off. Senior management had received numerous complaints regarding poor handling of basic systems of leave, pay and recruitment and one particularly prominent staff dispute remained unresolved. John was reassigned to a special project and a new leader was appointed who, in turn, wound back many of the training activities of the HR department and established a ‘back-to-basics’ philosophy. Before long the agency was in much the same position as it was before John commenced his role. So what went wrong? I chose this story because, in some ways at least, John did all the ‘right’ things as a new leader: consulting with key stakeholders, identifying a clear and compelling direction for change, and implementing his vision with energy, expertise and enthusiasm. Below, I argue that John’s response to the demands of a new leadership role, while quite typical and natural given our evolutionary programming, is inadequate for the needs of the modern public service, demonstrating how what I call private processing of information can impair both individual and organizational learning.

A common new leader syndrome: Private processing of information With hindsight it seems obvious John was too strongly influenced by his previous experience and did not adapt appropriately to the new situation. New leaders feel great pressure to provide solutions to pressing problems so that they demonstrate their ability and establish their authority. John failed to assist his agency largely because of the way that he paid attention in the early days of his new leadership: selectively noticing aspects of his experience that fitted with solutions he had confidence in offering; discounting experiences that did not support his identity as a progressive, knowledgeable leader; failing to engage in a sufficiently collaborative way to expose and grapple with the inevitable tensions and resource allocation issues afforded by a major change programme; and failing to develop his own team – leaving them vulnerable to yet another leader with the ‘silver bullet’ for success. In short, John focused and acted on his own private reasoning and activity without building a collaborative environment to test his agenda and understanding publicly. Private processing of information is a form of defensive behaviour that negatively impacts upon individual and organizational learning. Emphasizing the importance of error-detection and correction for organizational learning, Argyris and Schon (1978) distinguished between Model 1 behaviours, which involve conflict avoidance and self-protection; and Model 2 behaviours that

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involve relational transparency, public reflection and double-loop learning. People engage in model 1 behaviours, such as concealing their agenda and private information processing because they are fearful that being open about their aims, uncertainties, and information processing may expose them to conflict, questioning or ridicule. Of course, not all new leaders face the same demands or react the same way, but the situation and responses described above are common enough to make it worthwhile to explore the consequences and what might be done about it. So far I have argued that the social environment for a new leader in the public service often makes substantial cognitive and emotional demands upon new leaders. These demands include deeply embedded tacit assumptions that problems and solutions exist somehow independently of the perspectives brought to them, and that the role of the new leader is to fix those problems as quickly as possible. These assumptions and social demands, combined with natural, evolved patterns of psychological reaction; push the leader towards narrowing their attention and relying heavily upon their own resources and past experience in order to prove themselves by fixing things. The result is that new leaders tend to conduct private reasoning regarding: – The data: in the form of selective noticing and attending; – The nature of the problem: in the form of attributing causes and inferring the nature of the problem; and – The potential solutions. In the form of creating or replaying previously successful action plans. The first two of these, data selection and problem framing are also particularly likely to be conducted ‘on-the-fly’, reactively and automatically. To the extent that these processes occur outside of rational awareness they are prey to systematic distortions such as the availability bias (Tversky and Kahneman, 1974), confirmation bias (Gilbert, 1991) and defensive routines to avoid uncertainty, conflict and perceptions of incompetence (Dörner, 1996). The demands outlined above can be seen as a set of tacit short-term criteria for a successful succession. But if we broaden our focus to consider how a new leader might make progress on complex organizational challenges in the longer term, a different set of criteria come into focus. These long-term criteria are relevant even in the first days of succession because patterns of interaction tend to persist and the first days of a new role are the best opportunity the leader will get for learning. Figure 11.1 represents possible criteria for a successful succession, from the perspective of the leader, in terms of an inherent tension between short- and long-term interests. The urgency of the short-term demands means that they dominate the agenda of a new leader unless (s)he engages in a conscious and deliberate

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Short-term stakeholders. 1. Dealing effectively with immediate operational demands and issues (‘hit the ground running’) 2. Establish credibility by creating perceptions of competence and legitimacy (particularly up, but also down and out)

Long-term 1. Building trusting relationships (particularly down but also up and out) 2. Managing self to work sustainably (maintaining engagement and minimizing burnout) 3. Enabling strategic individual and organizational learning

Figure 11.1 Short-term demands versus long-term interests. ‘Up’ refers to one’s managers, ‘down’ refers to one’s team while ‘out’ refers to peers and stakeholders

strategy for entering the role. I explore such a deliberate strategy towards the end of this chapter. But in the following section I aim to make the case that leaders can and should consider the long-term criteria even in the face of the short-term demands of succession.

An alternative: Building trust through authentic leadership Trust is essential for long-term team performance and successful stakeholder engagement. When followers trust their leaders, they perform better on jobrelevant tasks, engage in more organizational citizenship behaviours, experience greater job satisfaction, display greater organizational commitment, and are less likely to wish to leave the organization (Dirks and Ferrin, 2002). Furthermore, team and organizational performance is improved (Burke et al., 2007) and followers are more likely to be satisfied with their leaders and perceive their leader to be effective (Gillespie and Mann, 2004). So how is trust in a leader developed? There is now good empirical evidence on this question, and the answer is complex. In a multi-level review, Burke et al. (2007) pointed to a range of antecedents and moderators of trust in leadership. Antecedents included a consultative leadership style, behavioural integrity (consistency of word and deed), leader ability, and benevolent behaviour; while moderators included leader reputation as well as trustor, team and organizational characteristics. Trust is developed through being capable, conveying legitimacy and purpose, doing what one says one will do and involving others in decisions. Of these, most new leaders seem to tacitly focus upon demonstrating their ability and bolstering their reputation in order to build trust. In an environment where they do not know who to trust and how much, rather than depend upon others new leaders seek modes of action that rely first and foremost upon their own capabilities. One way they can do this is to

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dive into solving pressing and complex problems. Their capability is thus demonstrated through immediate achievement. But this is a high-risk strategy, which often sees the leader working on the wrong issues or ignoring valuable contributions from others in the process. In that case, efforts at unilateral problem solving result in trust evaporating rather than being built. In a connected world, we need more sustainable and reliable ways to establish leadership authority and trust. One factor that appears to be critical in doing so is a consultative leadership style. Involving followers in participative or at least consultative decisionmaking generates perceptions of organizational justice and trust in the leader (Dirks and Ferrin, 2002). Indeed, Gillespie and Mann (2004) found that consultation with team members was one of three key factors (along with communicating a vision and establishing shared values) that accounted for 67 per cent of the variance in team members’ trust towards their leaders. Consultative leadership enhances perceptions of autonomy which, in turn, enhances motivation and engagement in followers (Stone et al., 2009). Furthermore, consultation helps develop a clear sense of shared purpose and empowers followers to realize that purpose (Burke et al., 2007). More broadly, the notion of relational transparency includes but extends the consultative leadership style. According to Mazutis and Slawinski (2008: 445) relational transparency: [E]ncompasses all of the earlier capabilities in the act of open and truthful self-disclosure … In addition to being self-aware, balanced and congruent in one’s goals, motives, values, identities and emotions, authentic leaders are also transparent in revealing these expressions to their followers (Hughes, 2005). Disclosing one’s true self to one’s followers builds trust and intimacy, fostering teamwork and cooperation (Gardner et al., 2005) and feelings of stability and predictability (Chan et al., 2005). Furthermore, relational transparency requires the willingness to hold oneself open for inspection and feedback, thereby also being an essential component in the learning process (Popper and Lipshitz, 2000). In other words, relational transparency involves risking vulnerability by revealing one’s own mental and emotional processing for public scrutiny. The consistency between the leader’s word and deed, referred to as behavioural integrity, also appears to be critical for trusting a leader and may, in turn, lead to enhanced performance, satisfaction and organizational citizenship (Simons, 2002). Palanski and Yammarino (2009) used evidence from studies of transformational (Bass and Steidlmeier, 1999), authentic (Avolio and Gardner, 2005) and spiritual (Fry, 2003) leadership, which all feature behavioural integrity, to argue that behavioural integrity should positively affect at least the social aspects of leader performance (e.g. consulting stakeholders, managing conflict, giving feedback).

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Behavioural integrity builds trust because followers can more confidently predict the leader’s behaviour. But such confidence arises from a pattern of consistent behaviour over time. To be consistent in the face of a changing and demanding environment, the leader needs to be able to effectively selfregulate (Atkins, 2008). Self-regulatory capability is what allows us to predict our behaviour and to regulate our internal and external state in order to achieve valued ends. So to act with integrity in a changing complex environment, leaders require self-awareness, as manifested by an ongoing, dynamic appreciation of their own sense-making in context. In other words, leaders need to be able to take a perspective on their own values, emotions, identity and characteristic behavioural reactions in relationship to their experience of the world (Kegan, 1994). One recent approach to leadership development that has brought together these elements of relational transparency, behavioural integrity and self-awareness is that of authentic leadership (Avolio and Gardner, 2005). Gardner et al. (2005) define authenticity as ‘both owning one’s personal experiences (values, thoughts, emotions and beliefs) and acting in accordance with one’s true self (expressing what you really think and believe and behaving accordingly)’. More specifically, authentic leadership has been characterized in terms of four factors: self-awareness, authentic behaviour, balanced processing and relational transparency. Self-awareness includes not just awareness of the content of one’s experience but also of the epistemological process of framing and constructing that experience. Authentic behaviour is similar to behavioural integrity in that it involves a consistency of word and deed. But it also includes the idea of being true to oneself. According to Kernis (2003: 14) ‘behaving authentically means acting in accord with one’s values, preferences, and needs as opposed to acting merely to please others or to attain rewards or avoid punishments’. In this sense, authentic behaviour reflects intrinsic motivation and self-determination (Deci and Ryan, 1985, 2008). Balanced processing refers to being able to rationally process one’s own and others’ perspectives. It is about being open to self-relevant information without ego-defence. Authentic people ‘are able to more objectively evaluate and accept both positive and negative aspects, attributes and qualities of themselves [and others], including skill deficiencies, suboptimal performance, and negative emotions’ (Gardner et al., 2005: 356). This nondefensive and open awareness takes time to develop but it is central to effective dialogue and collaboration. Indeed, there is increasing evidence that this form of awareness, often referred to as mindfulness, is predictive of a wide range of positive health and performance outcomes (Brown et al., 2007). Recently a measure of authentic leadership has allowed researchers to start exploring the impacts of this specific constellation of leader activities. Walumbwa et al. (2008: 111) found that their measure ‘accounted for

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variance in a diverse set of frequently researched work outcomes beyond that explained by ethical and transformational leadership dimensions. Specifically, authentic leadership was shown to account for additional unique variance in OCB [organizational citizenship behaviours], organizational commitment, and satisfaction with supervisor. Thus, evidence was obtained of the value added by considering the effects of authentic leadership on commonly researched organizational variables beyond existing measures of related leadership constructs’. In addition, ‘follower perceptions of the leaders’ authentic leadership were positively related to individual follower job satisfaction and rated job performance, controlling for the effect of organization climate’ (Walumbwa et al., 2008: 117). Authentic leadership appears to positively impact performance, job satisfaction as well as leader and follower wellbeing (see Avolio et al., 2009 for a review). Furthermore, trust in leadership appears to at least partially mediate the relationship between authentic leadership and performance (Clapp-Smith et al., 2009). In summary, in this section I have reviewed evidence regarding the importance of trust in achieving positive work outcomes and discussed a form of leadership that appears to contribute to trust and performance. In terms of the demands of succession, I am suggesting that a leader might not only attend to the immediate demands, but could also consider what types of relationships they wish to develop in order to be most effective in the longer term. A leader who begins with private processing of information and unilateral action may rapidly resolve initial crises but the long-run impact may include undermining trust or, at the very least, disempowering followers to contribute at their best. Expectations, both positive and negative, become entrained such that early impressions influence later interpretations of leader actions. Clearly trust and open communication facilitate organizational and individual learning. It is extremely easy for a person in authority to become isolated from the true opinions and perspectives of their followers and peers. But behaving in this collaborative way is by no means easy. Leaders often need to learn new ways of seeing their role and value, as well as more effective ways to express and regulate emotions. In the next section, I describe in detail one potential way in which a structured approach might be used to deliberately support a more collaborative and open form of engagement with staff.

Enabling strategic individual and organizational learning: A structured approach to collaborative enquiry for the new leader In response to the challenges of a new leadership role Jentz (2008) proposed a process called ‘EntryPlan’ to strategically orient new leaders to their environment and establish credibility and trust up, down and outwards. The EntryPlan approach was designed to encourage new leaders to select

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data and define problems more consciously and publicly. In this section I briefly describe this approach and evaluate it in the light of the research described earlier. An EntryPlan comprises four stages: a) designing and public testing, b) gathering data, c) conducting joint sense-making, and d) collaborative action planning. Each of these stages is described in brief below and in detail by Jentz (2008). Importantly, this work does not occur instead of working on immediate and pressing problems, rather it is expected that these steps will be conducted as one project among others that need to be accomplished in the early days of a new leader’s role. Many new public leaders are, at least initially, primarily concerned with impressing those who appointed them. In my experience, it is important that the EntryPlan approach is endorsed by one’s managers. The process appears to be most effective if the new leader sets expectations early that they are going to engage in a structured succession process that is designed to foster trust and learning. This process could start with the interview for the position, where having an EntryPlan is likely to be seen as a strong indicator of strategic thinking and commitment to the position. Stage 1: Design and test the EntryPlan Key decisions at this stage are: a) what is the purpose of the EntryPlan, b) who to talk to, and c) what questions to ask. The design can be conducted individually, with a manager or coach depending on the leader characteristics and the extent and nature of the demands of the leadership role. Designing the plan: What is the purpose of the EntryPlan? Two common reasons for engaging in this process are to orient to the strategic environment and to build relationships within one’s own team. All leaders both set an agenda and respond to others’ agendas. Leadership is a relationship between productive and receptive forces. But at senior levels, setting the agenda and deciding on strategic directions becomes a dominant responsibility over and above line management and operational tasks (Australian Public Service Commission, 2004). In the words of one Executive Director reflecting on his transition from being a Branch Head: ‘the focus on [task expertise and execution] dissipates and the expertise becomes more about stakeholder relationships and inter-governmental stuff and building that overall strategic knowledge into the organization’. Designing the plan: Who needs to be included in what steps of the process? At the more junior levels, leaders may focus on establishing relations with their direct reports during transition into the role. As the role becomes more senior, it is possible that the emphasis will shift from direct reports to strategic external stakeholders. This depends on what the leader hopes to

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achieve. Who do they most need to establish trust and credibility with? Who has the most critical perspectives for them to complete their work effectively? Stakeholders can be selected depending on their interest or power in the tasks relevant to the leader’s role. While a first draft might be completed by the leader themselves, it is likely that the plan will go through a number of iterations including consultation with more senior leaders to determine key stakeholder relationships. Designing the plan: What questions to ask? The scope and focus of the plan will be determined by its purpose. Questions might focus on areas such as: a) issues and principles that matter most to the interviewee, b) what the interviewee might know that could help the leader succeed (or avoid failure), c) current issues facing the interviewee’s organization/unit and what is on the horizon and d) how the different areas might effectively work together. Testing the plan Finally, in the spirit of collaborative reasoning, Jentz (2008) argues that the plan itself should be made public to others such as the leader’s manager, their team or other key stakeholders who might be able to make useful contributions to its structure. Stage 2: Gathering the data through dialogue Within the EntryPlan process, initial data is usually gathered in structured and purposeful individual interviews with key stakeholders. This is quite different way to the usual ‘meet-and-greet’ sessions common within the public service which often do not have an explicit agenda beyond ‘getting to know you’ and are fairly unhelpful. Even where they do have an explicit agenda, they are rarely cast in such a way as to focus upon the different perspectives brought to the issues. Within the EntryPlan approach, data gathering has the qualities of dialogue rather than discussion: a) Wherever possible, the agenda is open. Purposes are explicitly stated and checked with the other. (e.g. ‘I would like to use this meeting to … better understand your perspective on key challenges and strategic imperatives; … to let you know how I am thinking about my role; … to explore more effective ways for our groups to work together … How is that for you?’). b) Conversation is conducted in such a way that, as much as possible: i. The data (what actually happened or is happening) are kept separate from interpretations of those data (e.g. ‘In the past our departments have often not shared information’ is a much more useable framing of an issue than ‘in the past our departments have concealed information from one another.’ The latter infers negative intent that

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reduces possibility of other interpretations and usually gets in the way of building relationships.) ii. Interpretations are recognized as subjective rather than objective truths. iii. The interviewer’s interpretation of the interviewee’s comments is made open for testing and further elaboration (e.g. ‘So it sounds to me as though the biggest issue you are noticing here is X, and you want Y, have I got that right?’) So in the EntryPlan approach, interviews have an explicitly stated purpose and are conducted using reflective listening skills closer to dialogue than simple discussion. Conversations that proceed along the lines of: ‘What do you think?’ and then ‘That’s interesting, here is what I think’ do not typically reveal private assumptions and automatic processing. Stage 3: Collaborative sense-making The last two stages of the EntryPlan approach are making sense of the data and prioritizing actions. In some situations, the new leader may plan to simply conduct the data gathering publicly and then process that information privately or with selected colleagues. However, this is a lost opportunity to use the transition into a new role to demonstrate relational transparency and bring stakeholders together in a new and productive way. A middle manager who has focused their plan on conversations with direct reports could, for example, generate significant engagement, learning and trust by conducting sense-making and planning meetings with their team. Collaborative sense-making involves the leader presenting back the sense they have made of the data gathered in stage 2 for further comment, integration and elaboration. This allows the leader to validate their understanding and acknowledge inputs from others. In my experience, collaborative sense-making works best if the leader is as transparent as possible and able to separate ‘facts’ from interpretations. It is at this point that the defensive behaviours mentioned above are most likely to occur. For leaders unaccustomed to genuine dialogue, this stage can feel extremely uncomfortable as what previously looked simple in their own minds becomes a complex web of potentially competing perspectives. To engage fully with that complexity seems to require the self-regulatory skills discussed earlier. However, exposing this complexity can both inform the leader and make it clear to other stakeholders what constraints the leader is under. Stage 4: Collaborative Action Planning While the EntryPlan approach is specifically designed to encourage active and more deliberate ‘sense-making’, in order to make an impact there needs to be a translation into an action plan. In many public sector agencies, it seems that developing a prioritized action plan is the sole preserve

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of the leader (after all, what are they paid for?). But again, even if actionplanning is not done in a group, it can be conducted more collaboratively by, for example, developing a draft plan which is circulated for comment and input and may be integrated with a wider strategic plan. So, in summary, while it is possible to conduct only the first two stages, conducting all four publicly and collaboratively could potentially generate value by a) improving the quality of information used by the leaders to make decisions, b) improving the quality of problem definition, c) increasing trust in the leader, d) setting expectations that others can and should contribute to solutions, e) increasing the ability of stakeholders to perceive complexity and develop experience and skills in working with others to figure out what to do in the interest of improving the organization, f) increasing shared understanding of current practice and what needs to change, and g) creating increased engagement through shared perceptions of the issues and potential action plans (Jentz, personal communication). The process proposed by Jentz (2008) is potentially a ‘recipe’ for increasing relational transparency and, consequently, trust and learning as described earlier. Of course, there is a considerable amount of skill involved in conducting this process effectively and these skills appear to be the same as those associated with authentic leadership as described previously. The very act of engaging in learning about and conducting this process is, therefore, a potentially potent form of leadership development in its own right.

Possible objections and risks In this chapter I have suggested that key tasks of a new leader include developing trust and learning as well as getting started on immediate work. Studies of leader trust and authentic leadership suggest that a collaborative and transparent approach is likely to be helpful. The EntryPlan process proposed by Jentz (2008) provides a structure within which a suitably skilled or supported leader could possibly avoid the pitfalls of private information processing and embody collaboration in the early days of their leadership, thereby building trust and learning. In my experience, the collaborative approach presented in this chapter is sometimes seen as a bit unrealistic for the busy lives of public servants. And indeed, the importance of sensitivity to the specific demands of the leader’s role cannot be underestimated. Sometimes, for example, a new leader simply will not have the time or authorization to engage in anything like the process discussed above. On the other hand, any new approach is likely to feel uncomfortable, and in this case this problem is particularly acute because it asks leaders to make use of self-regulatory skills that can be difficult and uncomfortable to learn. However, given appropriate placement during interviews and managerial support, the EntryPlan can be framed as an initial project that is part of the work. This view only makes sense when

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the ‘real work’ of leadership is seen as more than just providing solutions in the short term. If framing the right issues and developing the trusting relationships necessary for effecting change are also valued, then activities like collaborative sense-making make sense. As a Branch Director noted to me: ‘when you really need something from one of the other agencies, if you haven’t got those relationships built up, you just can’t get it’. In some ways, the environment of the public service is becoming increasingly supportive of collaborative approaches to succession. The push for ‘whole-of-government’ collaboration within public service agencies provides an excellent context for considering collaborative succession as part of the real work of a public leader. It is expected that senior leaders build relationships across agencies and seek ways of seeing strategic issues from multiple perspectives. But often, the whole-of-government message is largely aspirational, and lacks an actionable plan for individual leaders. A collaborative approach to succession like that outlined above offers an unparalleled opportunity to integrate across organizational boundaries. Some leaders express concern about their capacity to be open about their reasoning and the collaborative approach does indeed call for more transparency than most of us are used to. Transparency can also be damaging if applied inappropriately for the context. It is obviously easiest to be open in high-trust situations and sometimes it is necessary to conceal aspects of our reasoning in low-trust situations. However, most of us systematically conceal aspects of our reasoning even in neutral situations because of largely personal reasons such as fear of appearing incompetent or naïve, giving away power or offending people. This chapter has suggested that leaders are likely to have more success building trust and learning if they are able to collaborate openly even in the face of these negative emotions. The evidence sug-gests that the most admired leaders are those who are willing to expose their reasoning to scrutiny and act with integrity (Kouzes and Posner, 2006). Unfortunately, the cultures of many public service agencies do not support open sharing of information. One public manager described her experience of trying to engage in more open information sharing within the tax office as follows: ‘sharing knowledge was an anathema to the way they operated, knowledge is power, so [sharing knowledge] was a threat’. Another expressed scepticism that she could be open about her intent to introduce a new compliance process for a key stakeholder. She felt that discussing this process with the stakeholder might trigger such strong reactions in the other that the relationship would be destroyed. But the relationship would arguably have been destroyed anyway when the stakeholder learned the process had been introduced without their knowledge. Furthermore, there are ways of framing a conversation to allow even the most difficult topics to be discussed.

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For example, continuing this example, the following passage illustrates how a leader might skilfully elicit the stakeholder perspective in this difficult situation: ‘The intention of this system is to improve services to clients and public accountability. It seems to me highly likely that this system or something like it will be introduced. It is in my interest to make sure that all the key players are reasonably satisfied with the introduction of this system because your cooperation will be critical to its long-term success. I can see merits in the system and one way we could approach this would be for us to have a debate about it with me presenting my arguments and you presenting yours. But this is unlikely to end in a solution that is mutually acceptable because it is unlikely each of us will be able to set aside our own views enough to fully understand the other’s perspective. So I would like to try something different and use this meeting to suspend arguing my perspective for now so that I can fully listen to yours. What I would like for this meeting is, as best I can, to learn to see the issue “through your eyes”. So I intend to listen as closely as I can to your perspectives and to check my understanding as I learn more. I would greatly appreciate it if you were to tell me when you think I am not appreciating your perspective as fully as I might. How does that sound to you?’ Assuming the leader is then able to reflectively listen to the stakeholder, they are then in a stronger position to request the same respectful attention to their perspective.

In conclusion Faced with the need to demonstrate their ability and establish their authority, tacit models of ‘heroic’ leaders who have all the answers seduce new leaders into thinking that private processing of information and unilateral action is the way to accomplish these aims. This tendency is further exacerbated by a natural tendency to narrow attention in reaction to stressful situations. Unfortunately, the complex issues faced in most public service agencies are such that private reasoning regarding critical problems is a luxury that can no longer be afforded. If we are to make progress on our most pressing and systemic issues, we are going to have to learn to face the discomfort associated with exposing our reasoning to scrutiny and thereby communicating and collaborating more effectively. The process of succession into a new leadership role is a unique opportunity to develop and demonstrate the possibilities arising from more public and careful reasoning.

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Bibliography Alford, J. and Hughes, O. (2008) ‘Public value pragmatism as the next phase of public management’, American Review of Public Administration, 38(2), 130–48. Appelbaum, S. H. and Valero, M. (2007) ‘The crucial first three months: An analysis of leadership transition traps and successes’, Journal of American Academy of Business, 11(1), 1–8. Argyris, C. E. and Schon, D. (1978) Organizational Learning: A Theory of Action Perspective (Reading, Mass.: Addison-Wesley). Atkins, P. W. B. (2008) ‘Leadership as response not reaction: Wisdom and mindfulness in public sector leadership’, in P. .t Hart and J. Uhr (eds) Public Leadership: Perspectives and Practices (Canberra: ANU E Press), pp. 73–82. Australian Public Service Commission (2004) ‘The integrated leadership system’. Accessed at http://www.apsc.gov.au/ils/index.html. Avolio, B. J. and Gardner, W. L. (2005) ‘Authentic leadership development: Getting to the root of positive forms of leadership’, Leadership Quarterly, 16(3), 315–38. Avolio, B. J., Walumbwa, F. O. and Weber, T. J. (2009) ‘Leadership: Current theories, research, and future directions’, Annual Review of Psychology, 60(1), 421–49. Bass, B. M. and Steidlmeier, P. (1999) ‘Ethics, character, and authentic transformational leadership behavior’, Leadership Quarterly, 10(2), 181–217. Brown, K. W., Ryan, R. M. and Creswell, J. D. (2007) ‘Mindfulness: Theoretical foundations and evidence for its salutary effects’, Psychological Inquiry, 18(4), 211–37. Burke, C., Sims, D. E., Lazzara, E. H. and Salas, E. (2007) ‘Trust in leadership: A multilevel review and integration’, The Leadership Quarterly, 18(6), 606–32. Chan, A., Hannah, S. and Gardner, W. (2005) ‘Veritable authentic leadership: Emergence, functioning, and impacts’, in W. Gardner, B. Avolio and F. Walumbwa (eds) Authentic Leadership Theory and Practice: Origins, Effects and Development, Monographs in Leadership and Management, Volume 3 (Boston: Elsevier). Clapp-Smith, R., Vogelgesang, G. and Avey, J. (2009) ‘Authentic leadership and positive psychological capital: The mediating role of trust at the group level of analysis’, Journal of Leadership and Organizational Studies, 15(3), 227–40. Deci, E. L. and Ryan, R. M. (1985) ‘The general causality orientations scale: Selfdetermination in personality’, Journal of Research in Personality, 19(2), 109–34. Deci, E. L. and Ryan, R. M. (2008) ‘Self-determination theory: A macrotheory of human motivation, development, and health’, Canadian Psychology/Psychologie canadienne, 49(3), 182–5. Dirks, K. T. and Ferrin, D. L. (2002) ‘Trust in leadership: Meta-analytic findings and implications for research and practice’, Journal of Applied Psychology, 87(4), 611–28. Dörner, D. (1996) The Logic of Failure: Recognizing and Avoiding Error in Complex Situations (Cambridge, Mass.: Perseus). Fredrickson, B. L. (2000) ‘Why positive emotions matter in organizations: Lessons from the broaden-and-build model’, Psychologist-Manager Journal, 4(2), 131–42. Fry, L. W. (2003) ‘Toward a theory of spiritual leadership’, Leadership Quarterly, 14, 693–727. Gardner, W. L., Avolio, B. J., Luthans, F., May, D. R. and Walumbwa, F. (2005) ‘“Can you see the real me?” A self-based model of authentic leader and follower development’, Leadership Quarterly, 16(3), 343–72. Getha-Taylor, H. (2008) ‘Learning indicators and collaborative capacity: Applying action learning principles to the U.S. Department of Homeland Security’, Public Administration Quarterly, 32(2), 125–46.

Paul Atkins 207 Gilbert, D. T. (1991) ‘How mental systems believe’, American Psychologist, 46(2), 107–19. Gillespie, N. A. and Mann, L. (2004) ‘Transformational leadership and shared values: The building blocks of trust’, Journal of Managerial Psychology, 19(6), 588–607. Hooijberg, R. and Schneider, M. (2001) ‘Behavioral complexity and social intelligence: How executive leaders use stakeholders to form a systems perspective’, in S. J. Zaccaro and R. J. Klimoski (eds) The Nature of Organizational Leadership: Understanding the Performance Imperatives Confronting Today’s Leaders (San Francisco: The Jossey-Bass business and management series), pp. 104–31. Hughes, L. (2005) ‘Developing transparent relationships through humor in the authentic leader–follower relationship’, in W. Gardner, B. Avolio and F. Walumbwa (eds) Authentic Leadership Theory and Practice: Origins, Effects and Development, Monographs in Leadership and Management, Volume 3 (Boston: Elsevier). Jentz, B. (2008) How to Begin a Leadership Position Successfully: The Entryplan Approach (Newton, Mass.: Leadership and Learning Inc). Karp, T. and Helgø, T. I. T. (2008) ‘From change management to change leadership: Embracing chaotic change in public service organizations’, Journal of Change Management, 8(1), 85–96. Kegan, R. (1994) In Over Our Heads: The Mental Demands of Modern Life (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press). Kernis, M. H. (2003) ‘Toward a conceptualisation of optimal self-esteem’, Psychological Inquiry, 14, 1–26. Kouzes, J. and Posner, B. (2006) ‘It’s not just the leader’s vision’, in F. Hesselbein and M. Goldsmith (eds) The Leader of the Future 2 (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass), pp. 207–14. Mazutis, D. and Slawinski, N. (2008) ‘Leading organizational learning through authentic dialogue’, Management Learning, 39(4), 437–56. Palanski, M. and Yammarino, F. (2009) ‘Integrity and leadership: A multi-level conceptual framework’, Leadership Quarterly, 20(3), 405–20. Popper, M. and Lipshitz, R. (2000) ‘Organizational learning: Mechanisms, culture and feasibility’, Management Learning, 31(2), 181–96. Sapolsky, R. M. (1995) Why Zebras Dont Get Ulcers: A Guide to Stress, Stress-Related Diseases, and Coping (New York: W.H. Freeman and Company). Simons, T. L. (2002) ‘Behavioral integrity: The perceived alignment between managers’ words and deeds as a research focus’, Organization Science, 13, 18–35. Stone, D. N., Deci, E. L. and Ryan, R. M. (2009) ‘Beyond talk: Creating autonomous motivation through self-determination theory’, Journal of General Management, 34(3), 75–91. Tversky, A. and Kahneman, D. (1974) ‘Judgment under uncertainty: Heuristics and biases’, Science, 185(4157), 1124–31. Walumbwa, F., Avolio, B., Gardner, W., Wernsing, T. and Peterson, S. (2008) ‘Authentic leadership: Development and validation of a theory-based measure’, Journal of Management, 34(1), 89–126.

12 ‘The Tideless Pond that Seemed Waiting for Me’:1 The Afterlife of Australian Prime Ministers Paul Strangio

After power has changed hands When power changes hands there are winners and losers: those who gain and those who relinquish power. Much of this volume is oriented towards the former: the acquiring of, and adaptation to, government and leadership office. This chapter, however, focuses on what happens on the down side of the exchange of power. It explores the ‘afterlives’ of chief executives – the trajectories of those who have surrendered the reins of national government in Australia. With the exception of the United States (Norton Smith and Walch, 1990; Skidmore, 2004; Updegrove, 2006), systematic studies of the fate of former leaders in representative democracies are rare. In a recent meditation on the topic, the political historian, John Keane, observed that the ‘subject of ex-office holders is under-theorized, underresearched, under-appreciated’ (2009: 282–3). For Keane, this neglect is mirrored in a larger ‘odd silence about life after high office’ (2009: 281) – ‘odd’ since a fundamental innovation of representative democracy was its insistence that power is transitory and the holders of executive office political mortals. Former leaders are, in other words, inherent to properly functioning democracies in which there is regular rotation of power. But Keane also points to a developing trend of ex-office holders becoming more ubiquitous and active as a result of such factors as improved health and extended life spans. As ‘[public] life after office is becoming commonplace’ (2009: 282), he suggests former leaders are a source of both problems and opportunity for democracies. This chapter takes up Keane’s injunction for serious treatment of ex-leaders: for a better understanding of the changing dynamics that govern the choices available to former heads of government and the nature of the public afterlives they create. Whereas Keane’s is a free-wheeling, conceptually-driven transnational discussion, here the focus is on the evolution of prime ministerial 208

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afterlives in Australia on the premise that situation-specific, empiricallybased inquiry is a prerequisite to filling the lacunae of post-leadership research. At the same time, this case study is not sui generis – changes to post-leadership paths in Australia parallel trends highlighted by Keane, as well as by Kevin Theakston (2006) in a recent overview of the activities of former occupants of 10 Downing Street. Australia is certainly analogous in that the phenomenon of life after national leadership has escaped scrutiny, apart from some impressionistic media-based commentary on the current crop of living exPMs. The thrust of this commentary (e.g. Gold, 2007; Ray, 2008; Switzer, 2008; Warhurst, 2008) paints former office-holders as a meddlesome, largely purposeless group who have struggled to accommodate themselves to loss of power and of whom it would be better, particularly for their successors, if they were never heard from again. A former senior minister has summed up the plight of the nation’s ex-leaders this way: prime ministers rarely find peace having relinquished office. They wander around aimlessly, seeking out a meaningful role … Mostly, they succumb to generational jealousy, criticising their successors with maximum intensity, especially if they are from the same side of politics (Ray, 2008). Does the history of prime ministerial afterlives in Australia bear out such an interpretation? Has it been the inevitable fate of former PMs to become disenchanted with heirs and to suffer from office-dependency? Is it true, as Keane suggests (2009: 284), that giving up power ‘gracefully’ does not come naturally: ‘stepping down is a capacity learned reluctantly, and with the greatest difficulty’? More fundamental to the question of how power changes hands: have former leaders’ wielded power beyond the political grave? In other words, despite their formal relinquishment of office, what opportunities have they had to continue to exercise influence over successors, their political parties and the public, and in what ways have those opportunities altered over time?

Australia’s former prime ministers: An overview This study delineates a significant change in post-prime ministerial trajectories in Australia that can be separated into two distinct eras. It posits the 1966 exit of Robert Menzies (the nation’s long-serving PM) as a transition point between those eras. First, though, let us lay out some preliminary context and data to undergird this investigation.2 The office and powers of the prime minister in Australia are rooted in Westminster-derived customs of responsible government. Traditionally the leader of the majority party in the House of Representatives, PMs do not formally possess power in their own right – cabinet is the supreme site of (collective) decision-making. Yet the classic formulation of PMs as primus inter pares is a long-standing myth.

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As the doyen of scholars of Australian executive government has noted, PMs ‘are the dominant figures in Australian politics and have always been’ (Weller, 2007: 460). Pivotal to this dominance has been a stable party system (Labor versus nonLabor) that congealed at the end of the first decade of the Commonwealth (Strangio, 2009). Whereas before that settlement there had been a rapid turnover of ministries most of which were terminated on the floor of the parliament, in the hundred years since, most PMs have lost office because of electoral defeat. In descending order of frequency, other causes have been overthrow by parliamentary subordinates, death (Joseph Lyons, John Curtin and Harold Holt), retirement, defeat in the House of Representatives and dismissal. It has become an axiom of Australian politics that, once elected, governments can expect at least two terms of office – the last administration not returned on its first visit to the polls was James Scullin’s Depression-era Labor ministry, although the ALP went perilously close to defeat after one term in 2010. Of the ten PMs who have been in office since World War II ended, (excluding the care-taker John McEwen), the average period of incumbency is a little over seven years. What of post-prime ministerial longevity? At the time of writing 26 PMs have left office, beginning with Edmund Barton in 1903 and most recently Kevin Rudd in 2010. Three were ‘caretakers’ (Earle Page, Francis Forde and McEwen), who warmed the prime ministerial seat while a replacement was chosen for an incumbent who had died in office. They are excluded from these calculations. Six of the (remaining) 23 ex-PMs are alive: Gough Whitlam, Malcolm Fraser, Bob Hawke, Paul Keating, John Howard, and Rudd. Of the 17 that are deceased the average period between the final exit from office and death is 16 years. Consistent with Keane’s observation of a lengthening out of post-leadership lives, the survival period for the living former PMs is trending higher. Furthermore, the majority of the time between leaving office and the grave has been spent outside parliament. Again eliminating the caretakers, former PMs have remained in parliament following their final exit from office for an average four years and eight months. The indomitable William Morris Hughes is the outlier: his near three decades in the House of Representatives following his defeat easily exceeds the staying power of Scullin and Arthur Fadden, each of whom remained for a further 17 years. Though surpassed by Fadden who was treasurer for nine years in Robert Menzies’ post-World War II cabinets but who is a special case because he was a ‘stop gap’ leader (Grattan, 2000: 9), Hughes’ record is also exceptional for the length and diversity of his ministerial service following his premiership. While too compulsively ambitious and quarrelsome to settle into the mantle of elder statesmen, Hughes bears comparison with Britain’s Arthur James Balfour; both ex-leaders became renowned for their survival skills that included sliding between different party banners (Theakston, 2006: 450). Five other PMs have served in the ministry of a successor. The two examples since World War II are John Gorton and Rudd. Gorton’s decision to accept a portfolio from William McMahon was principally actuated by a wrecking impulse, while it is uncertain yet whether Rudd will

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stay long in the ministry of his nemesis and successor, Julia Gillard. Moreover, the period between the loss of the prime ministership and the end of parliamentary career has shrunk in recent decades so that it is now usually measured in weeks rather than in years.

The pre-modern era: Barton to Chifley ‘I feel like a school kid going on holidays’ So quipped James Scullin when he surrendered his commission in January 1932 following his government’s crushing election defeat (Robertson, 1974: 379). Scullin had greater cause than most to feel liberated at leaving office – his incumbency had been one long crisis as his administration helplessly grappled with an economic maelstrom and was beset by internecine strife. Even so, Scullin’s insistence that, just as ‘he was not exhilarated when I was returned at the head of the Government’ he was ‘not downcast now’ (Robertson, 1974: 378), rings true of the sentiment of Australia’s early PMs. It is striking how many evinced relief at the transition to life after office. Alfred Deakin, three times PM in the first Commonwealth decade, is an obvious case. Throughout large parts of his political career he was conflicted over whether to accept the obligations of public office or escape into a private world of spiritual and intellectual contemplation. The existential hand-wringing was acute by his final premiership. When defeated at the 1910 election, he professed to being ‘more relieved than anyone else I know to find myself freer than I have felt for ten years past’ (La Nauze, 1979: 604). There are other instances of early PMs not ‘raging’ against the dying of the political light. Barton set the precedent for graceful departure. Though initially agonizing over whether he could ‘persuade myself to leave’, he ‘showed little sign of regretting his separation from active politics’ once settled on the bench of the newly created High Court (Bolton, 2000: 297, 310). Likewise, George Reid accepted with good humour being tapped on the shoulder in 1908 to step aside as leader of the Anti-Socialist (formerly Free Trade) Party as a necessary precondition for smoothing the way to the fusion of the non-Labor parties. Ensconced as Australia’s inaugural High Commissioner in London by the time of the next election, Reid contentedly recorded: ‘To be out of the way is a strange and most pleasant experience’ (McMinn, 1989: 257). Similarly, Joseph Cook ‘never gave the smallest hint that he coveted the leadership [and prime ministership]’ during late 1916 and early 1917 when his Liberal Party was negotiating a coalition with the Hughes-led Labor breakaways (Murdoch, 1996: 115–27). Then there is Stanley Melbourne Bruce, who having also gone to England as High Commissioner following his government’s 1929 election loss, rejected numerous overtures that he return to Canberra and reclaim the prime ministership (Cumpston, 1989: 106–11, 168).

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Perhaps the early PMs protested too much and they were simply adept at disguising their ambitions and relish of power. Hughes is a powerful counterpoint. Not only did he haunt the parliament for decades following his demise as PM, but his lust for office was never sated. As Donald Horne (2000: 182–3) cheekily observed of the octogenarian Hughes of 1945: ‘but even if by now he had decided he might never again be prime minister – but how can one be certain? – he was still hoping for one more spell in office as attorney-general’. Yet, Hughes aside, the pattern is sufficiently strong among the majority of the pre-Menzies PMs to suggest that the notion of ex-leaders inevitably becoming hooked on office is informed by recent rather than historical experience. Why is that the PMs of yesteryear reconciled themselves more comfortably to handing over power? One supposition is that the prime ministerial project was less individual in that era and thus there was not the same degree of investment of self in the office. Perhaps also it is only since the prime ministership has become unambiguously central to the nation’s life and its powers so expansive that its seductions have become difficult to relinquish without separation angst. The physical toll that the office exacted on its occupants is another factor that influenced early PMs to yield to political mortality. Back then leaders had nothing like the support structures available to their modern counterparts. Their resilience was also less in an era of comparatively poor diets, rudimentary medical treatments, higher rates of chronic morbidity and shorter life spans. Poor health was an unwelcome reality for many of the early PMs; in some cases illness not only forced them out of the job but gravely compromised their post-prime ministerial existence. Most severely, the burdens of office are regarded as having hastened the deaths of Lyons, Curtin and Chifley. Although there were other extenuating factors, and he recovered to live for another three and a half decades, ill-health contributed to the decision of Labor’s first PM, John Christian Watson to resign the party leadership at the age of 40. Contemporary observers blamed his brief stint in office in 1904, which was said to have ‘knocked his nerves to tatters’ (McMullin, 2004: 161). Similarly, a major reason for Barton relinquishing the prime ministership in 1903 was that ‘doctors had advised him he would lengthen his life expectancy by getting out of politics’ (Bolton, 2000: 294). For Andrew Fisher and Deakin there would be no recovery. Both were suffering irreversible health decline by their final premierships, beginning the descent into dementia that cruelly disabled and shortened their post-political lives (La Nauze, 1979: ch. 25–26; Day, 2008: 304, 328–9, ch. 13–14). Scullin also had his health ruined by the strain of governing during the depths of the Depression. Despite being in office for only two years, the physical ravages were manifest: ‘[Scullin] aged rapidly, his face becoming more lined, and his walk becoming slower … his hair changed from a sandy colour to absolute whiteness’ (Robertson, 1974: 381).

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Avenues of influence In the first half of last century there were semi-established pathways open to ex-PMs that offered the potential for continuing influence. Staying in parliament and accepting further ministerial office was an option not only exercised by Hughes, but also by Cook and, briefly, by Bruce and Menzies (after his first premiership). Scullin’s health was too impaired to enable him to serve in John Curtin’s World War II cabinet, but he was appointed to advisory positions. Scullin is an early example of the Labor Party elevating a former leader to the station of elder statesman (Robertson, 1974: ch. 29). Watson’s influence over the Labor Party, by contrast, was cut short by his support for conscription during World War I. He went on to play a role in the formation of the nonLabor Nationalist Party before drifting out of politics in the final decades of his life (Grassby and Ordonez, 2001: 136–41). A mesmerizing force over colleagues during the early Commonwealth, the precipitous decay of Deakin’s mind curtailed any de facto influence he might have retained following his departure from parliament. The post-prime ministerial authority of Deakin’s predecessor, Barton, on the other hand, was undoubted as he traded political leadership for judicial leadership in the final decade and a half of his life. From the High Court bench, Barton ruled on the constitutional integrity of his contemporaries’ legislation and presided in cases that calibrated the balance of power between the newly created Commonwealth and states (Rutledge, 1979; Bolton, 2000: ch. 14). While his reputation as a jurist is mixed, this places him in a unique post-prime ministerial category. Whereas Barton’s elevation to the High Court proved a one-off, the High Commissionership in London was a routine destination for the nation’s ex-leaders in the first half of last century. Four former PMs filled the post during the three and a half decades from its 1909 inauguration: Reid (1909–16), Fisher (1916–21), Cook (1921–27) and Bruce (1933–45). While the original expectation was that the High Commissioner would play an important diplomatic role, the post’s functions were largely ceremonial until the 1920s. The chief retardant on the development of its diplomatic potential was ‘the constraint imposed by prime ministers of the day’ (Bridge et al., 2010: 5; Meaney, 2010). At home, the post was popularly conceived as a plum for political has-beens. The Melbourne Herald grumbled in anticipation of Cook’s 1920 appointment that it was ‘reserved for distinguished politicians who had outlived their usefulness in Australia, and may be adroitly consigned to dignified ease’ (Attard, 1991: 11). For the ex-PMs who spent time as High Commissioner, the position was of varying congeniality. ‘Fisher, still thinking of himself in some ways a prime minister’ (Meaney, 2010: 47), had his tenure blighted by Hughes’ manic determination to sideline him at every turn and his own failing health (Attard, 1995; Day, 2008: 361–400). By contrast, Cook and Reid better reconciled themselves to its limitations and found enough in

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the role to provide a sense of purpose (McMinn, 1989: 253–69; Murdoch, 1996: 137–9; Meaney, 2010). It was Bruce who transformed the High Commissionership into a post of significance in the 1930s. Not only did he become an influential envoy in London, but also Australia’s lead representative at the League of Nations in Geneva (including becoming chairman of its council). David Lee, author of a forthcoming biography of Bruce, argues that this was a period when Australia began for the first time to express its international personality. This was largely due to Bruce having become principal Australian delegate in Geneva … At a time when instructions from Canberra were irregular, Bruce was left with considerable autonomy to shape Australia’s embryonic foreign policy (2010: 84). The apogee of Bruce’s international diplomacy was the second half of the 1930s: his counsel was sought on issues as varied as the Abyssinian crisis, the Royal abdication crisis and the Munich negotiations, and he oversaw initiatives within the League of Nations that prefigured the post-war development of the United Nations. As a proponent of appeasement, Bruce was distrusted by Churchill and his influence waned during World War II (Bridge, 2010; Cumpston, 1989: ch. 8 and 9). Even so, Lee (2010: 82) judges him ‘one of the most consequential Australian diplomats of the [20th] century’. Indeed, arguably, Bruce’s High Commissionership was of greater moment than his premiership. That Bruce turned down several appeals in the 1930s to return to the Australian parliament suggests that he reckoned the opportunities of international statesmanship from his base in London surpassed those of antipodean domestic leadership. Going ‘home’ In an era when London was the heart of the empire and Britain still ‘home’ to many Australians, Bruce’s calculation was perhaps not so surprising. As Horne (2000: 179) puts it: ‘London was the imperial city and Australia was merely a province; Bruce declined the offer of banishment’. Following the end of his High Commissionership, considering that there was ‘no niche for me in Australia’, Bruce accepted a viscountcy and seat in the House of Lords. Though later appointed the inaugural chancellor of the Australian National University, he lived out his days in London (Radi, 1979). Bruce was not alone among Australia’s early ex-leaders in settling in Britain following his prime ministership, or in seeking recognition and achievement in the imperial metropolis. The syndrome was most pronounced among the former non-Labor PMs, but not exclusively. Upon arriving in England in 1916 to begin his High Commissionership, the Scottish-born Fisher declared that he felt he had ‘returned not to a foreign country but to his home’. After briefly coming back to Australia to settle his affairs following the end of his term,

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Fisher returned to England. He even sought Labour Party nomination for the House of Commons in the early 1920s, despite growing mental frailty (Day, 2008: 362, 401–8). Reid actually succeeded in gaining a seat in the Commons in early 1917 and was ‘mightily pleased’ by his (uncontested) election (McMinn, 1989: 271–2). Like Fisher, he died and was buried in London. Cook did return to Australia, but his biographer (Murdoch, 1996: 139) suggests that for this former Staffordshire pit boy ‘the crowning delight of his life’ had been his acceptance ‘by the aristocrats of the Empire as one of themselves’ during his High Commissionership. Money matters Part of the attraction of the High Commissionership was financial: it was a relatively lucrative post in an era when former PMs (and parliamentarians generally) received no pension. It was not until 1948 that the Chifley government established a parliamentary pension scheme (Manthorpe, 2004). Accordingly, for at least the first half of last century, with the exception of Bruce who was independently wealthy, maintaining a source of income was an unavoidable concern for ex-leaders. This could be an incentive to stay in parliament as demonstrated by Scullin remaining in the House of Representatives long after he was an invalid. When he did leave in 1949, a testimonial was organized to keep him through his final years of life (Robertson, 1974: 478–9). Hughes was also the beneficiary of a testimonial, though in his case controversially while still PM. The handsome sum of £25,000, it had been ‘subscribed in recognition of his services to Australia and the Empire during the war and at the [Versailles] Peace Conference’ (Fitzhardinge, 1979: 456–7). Reid’s decision to take up a seat in the House of Commons as a septuagenarian certainly had a pecuniary motive. Even then he relied upon extra income from directorship fees to save him from ‘financial embarrassment’ during his autumn years (McMinn, 1989: 273). Similarly, Fisher’s biographer surmises that ‘financial reasons’ induced him to bear the indignity of seeking endorsement for the House of Commons when already shadowed by dementia (Day, 2008: 407–8). Barton also remained on the High Court well after his health had seriously declined motivated in part to provide for his family (Bolton, 2000: 328). Other former PMs found alternative means to the public purse to financially sustain them. Perhaps the most remarkable story is Watson’s. ‘[L]iterally broke’ and ‘desperate for an income to survive’ (Grassby and Ordonez, 2001: 119), when he left parliament in 1910 he embarked on various money-making ventures. These were initially unsuccessful: he returned empty-handed from a gold prospecting mission to South Africa and land speculation in outer Sydney also failed. Yet Watson did not abandon his business ambitions. He became a director of a major wool and textile company and pioneering lobbyist on its behalf. In the 1920s, the expanding motoring industry became a focus of his activities. He was a founder and

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driving force of the National Roads and Motorists’ Association, and chairman of the New South Wales Traffic Advisory Committee. In subsequent years, he was the first chairman of directors of the Australian Motorists Petrol Co. Ltd (AMPOL) and a founding director of Yellow Cabs Australia Ltd (Grassby and Ordonez, 2001: ch. 10–12). While his estate was relatively modest when he died in 1941, Watson’s extensive business interests give lie to the notion that it is only in recent times that former Labor leaders have soiled their hands with commercial enterprises.

‘I begin to regret that I ever retired’: The Menzies transition The political afterlife of Sir Robert Menzies may be viewed as a hinge between two eras. Most strikingly, Menzies post-prime ministerial disenchantment with his political heirs heralded a trend to which few of his successors have been immune. As the only unambiguous example of an Australian PM who relinquished office voluntarily, Menzies was perhaps an unlikely victim of that syndrome. His resignation in 1966 at age 71 came after an unparalleled seven consecutive election victories and unbroken 16 years in office since 1949. He had nothing left to prove. On the other hand, his lengthy supremacy of the Australian political landscape and mantle as the father of the modern Liberal Party may have been the very things that made it difficult for him to tolerate lesser men steering the ship of state. Disillusionment surfaced quickly. Already uncomfortable with the new broom attitudes of his successor Harold Holt (Henderson, 1994: 184), Menzies disapproval of the Liberal Party’s direction spiked after John Gorton replaced Holt as PM following the latter’s drowning at the end of 1967. Gorton’s first major sin was to overlook Menzies’ long-time bureaucratic right-hand man, John Bunting, when appointing a new head of the Prime Minister’s Department. Menzies fumed to another senior official: ‘I begin to regret that I ever retired!’ Gorton further provoked Menzies’ wrath by cancelling entitlements that he had previously enjoyed while carrying out his duties as Warden of the Cinque Ports in England. He bitterly complained that Gorton had decided to ‘suppress all reference to, or traces of, Menzies’ (Martin, 1999: 557). Menzies’ most accomplished biographer, A. W. Martin (1999: 558), conjectured these ‘extreme’ responses were a ‘delayed reaction at having voluntarily given up the mana he had so long taken for granted’. If so, that reaction intensified in the final decade of his life. Privately, he renounced the Liberal Party. His daughter, Heather, recalled her father bridling when an interlocutor referred to it as ‘your party’. ‘My party? It’s not my party’, he indignantly retorted (Henderson, 1994: 183). Indeed, it seems likely that the father of the Liberal Party committed the ultimate act of filial disownment by spurning his political child at the ballot box at the 1969 federal

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election. Gorton’s removal as Liberal leader failed to restore his faith; he repeated the snub in 1972 and, possibly, in 1974 (Henderson, 1994: 186–7; Martin, 1999: 564–5). By then he had succumbed to deep pessimism about the state of Australian politics. The Whitlam Labor government appalled him and, while welcoming Malcolm Fraser’s advent as Liberal leader and then PM, Fraser’s early years in office did not measure up to his expectations. Menzies took to advising Fraser ‘on everything from election tactics to the improvement of his television appearances’ (Martin, 1999: 546, 562–5). If this meddling portended a future trend of ex-PMs peering over the shoulders of successors, Menzies at least kept his interventions behind-the-scenes rather than publicly airing them. Martin has speculated that stroke-induced personality changes were a cause of Menzies’ proclivity for hyper-critical political and personal judgements in his final years of life (Martin, 1999: 562). The rather precipitous decline of Menzies’s health at the conclusion of his political career is, as we have seen, a misfortune he shared with many of his predecessors. This was as much as anything a corollary of the advanced age at which he exited office. While still in reasonable health when he resigned, Menzies suffered a stroke in late 1968. He recovered slowly, but further strokes in 1971 permanently weakened him and curtailed his activities until his death in 1978 (Martin, 1999: 558–61). In another way, Menzies was more fortunate than his forerunners in that he benefited from the introduction of parliamentary pensions. As a result of revisions to that scheme in the 1950s, ex-PMs had become entitled to additional allowances to those given to other retired MPs. Menzies was also the first former PM to be granted non-pension entitlements. However, Menzies was not wealthy when he retired. A group of friends and admirers ‘clubbed together’ to purchase a home in the Melbourne suburb of Malvern into which he and his wife Pattie shifted after vacating the Lodge (Martin, 1999: 529, 546, 561; Manthorpe, 2004). Menzies’ publication of memoirs in retirement (1967 and 1970) also anticipated future directions. Few of his predecessors had done so. Reid had been the first to produce a memoir after leaving office, while Hughes penned two ‘collections of anecdotes’ (Reid, 1917; Hughes, 1947, 1950; Horne, 2000: 185). Otherwise, and perhaps incongruously, it was the short-lived Country Party PMs, Page and Fadden, who completed memoirs (Page, 1963; Fadden, 1969). Other early PMs curtly dismissed the idea (Cumpston, 1989: 269; Murdoch, 1996: 140). In common with nearly all those produced by his prime ministerial counterparts before and since, Menzies’ memoirs lacked insight and were personally unrevealing. One of the few interesting sections in the first volume were his reflections on the nation’s other leaders. Disenchanted with his successors, it was ironic that Menzies accused Hughes of becoming ‘primarily reminiscent’

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in later life. Without hint of self-consciousness, he quoted Shakespeare’s Henry V: Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember with advantages What feats he did that day … (Menzies, 1967: 109). A final way in which Menzies’ post-prime ministerial activities were transitional was his enthusiastic, but archaic, answer to the call of empire. Before retirement Menzies had been awarded the Order of Thistle, the highest order of knighthood yet conferred on an Australian, and in mid1966 was installed as Constable of Dover Castle and Warden of the Cinque Ports in an elaborate traditional ceremony. He carried out the latter office conscientiously as long as his health permitted, making annual pilgrimages to Walmer Castle in Kent, the official residence of the Warden (Joske, 1978: 347–53). The images of Menzies bedecked in Admiralty uniform and revelling in the pageantry of the position was fodder for critics. By then the sun was well and truly setting on the British empire and the economic and the cultural ties between Australia and United Kingdom were thinning, making it fashionable to mock Menzies’ Anglophile devotions (e.g. Horne, 1964: 97–102, 201–13). However unfair were the caricatures of him as an antediluvian and obsequious empire loyalist, those reactions underscored that the days of ex-PMs finding solace in the bosom of the mother country were past. Both Gorton and McMahon accepted imperial knighthoods in the future (Hancock, 2002: 382), but increasingly Australia’s former leaders had to find international recognition elsewhere.

The modern era: Gorton to Rudd ‘The body keeps twitching after the head is cut off’ In his memoir of the Keating prime ministership, Don Watson, Keating’s speechwriter, describes the aftermath of the government’s defeat by the Howard-led Liberal-National Coalition in 1996: for months after the loss we would act as if we still had it in our power to rectify things. I kept a file of Howard’s broken promises; composed in my head speeches that Kim Beazley3 – or Paul Keating – might deliver; sent the odd note to Beazley’s office; for nearly three months kept the political diary going … Paul Keating, while maintaining an admirable dignity and despite his depression, felt each blow on his good name as it is said people continue to feel a limb after it has been amputated. I felt it

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too … Political death is like the other kind – the body keeps twitching after the head is cut off (Watson, 2002: 732). Watson writes with an artist’s licence. Nonetheless, his evocation of a sense of bereavement and disorientation at the loss of office is in tune with modern experience. In the place of the resigned relief of their earlier counterparts, ‘raging’ against political death seems to have been far more the norm among the modern ex-PMs. This has materialized in a pronounced tendency for former office-holders to insinuate themselves into public debate and look over the shoulder of leadership successors. The relationship between ex-PMs and their successors has frequently been strained and, in a pattern notable on the Liberal side of politics, sometimes poisonous. No matter the partisan stripe, modern former PMs have also consistently indulged in self-justification through defence and advocacy of their prime ministerial record. Why is it that the transition to life after office has been more problematic for former leaders in recent decades? One answer is that this is a media created phenomenon. In early times, ex-PMs could, if they desired, slide into relative obscurity. This is no longer the case. As Keane points out (2009: 290), the pervasiveness of the media means that it is now ‘virtually impossible’ for former heads of government to ‘stay off stage, or to remain invisibly silent’. The case of Howard (PM from 1996–2007) is instructive. Both before and since leaving parliament he insisted on his determination to eschew commenting upon politics in retirement (e.g. van Onselen, 2009). In doing so, he was implicitly critical of other ex-PMs for sullying themselves by getting caught up in the news media cycle. Likewise, following his defeat, Howard admirers predicted that he would be publicly circumspect compared to his outspoken predecessors (e.g. Switzer, 2008). Yet, since his removal from office, chased by journalists, Howard has ventilated his opinions about political developments with growing frequency. This has included commenting on leadership in the Liberal Party (e.g. Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 2010a). Secondly, it is plausible that modern era ex-PMs have become more susceptible to separation angst because of the evolution of the office. In common with other comparable democracies (Poguntke and Webb, 2005), since the 1970s there has been an augmentation of leadership resources and increase in the prominence of office-holders: the prime ministership is more than ever before the axis around which the nation’s political system turns (Walter and Strangio, 2007). The trappings of office have also been enormously enhanced: contrast, for example, the grandeur and vast scale of the executive suites of the new parliament house (opened in 1988) with the modesty of the PM’s office in the old parliament. While the prime ministership might have been a poor aphrodisiac in bygone days, its powers of

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seduction and addiction have been supercharged in modern times. Weaning oneself off the job has undoubtedly become a greater practical and psychological challenge. Malcolm Fraser’s wife, Tamie, has noted that the first years out of office were extremely difficult for her husband, who was ‘more lost than I think I realised at the time’. He even had to (re-)learn ‘how to dial out a number from home … and book a plane’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 620). Howard’s insistence that he has smoothly acclimatized to life after the prime ministership was belied by a continuing preoccupation with politics. He maintained an office that bears an uncanny resemblance to his prime ministerial suite complete with cable television tuned so ‘he can stay abreast of political developments as they happen’ (van Onselen, 2009). It was not until 2010, when he was nominated (unsuccessfully) for high office in the International Cricket Council, that he seemed to have settled on a life outside Australian party politics. In a similar vein, the diaries of Mark Latham, Labor opposition leader 2003–05, refer to the ‘separation anxiety’ suffered by two former Labor PMs Whitlam and Keating. Latham, a Whitlam protégé, records an encounter with a moody Keating in 2002: He’s still obsessed with the Federal Parliament … Reminds me of my worst feelings about Gough [Whitlam] – they can’t let go, politics as an obsession, instead of an achievement in life from which you move on (Latham, 2005: 187, 407). Third, is the constitutional resilience of modern ex-PMs. Notwithstanding a general trend towards a ‘younging’ of parliamentary politics (Weller and Fraser, 1987), the post-Menzies PMs have on average been a little older than their forerunners when leaving office. But they have been able to weather its strains without serious or irreversible damage to their physical well-being. To take one example: when Fraser was defeated in 1983 at the age of 52 he has been described as still being in his ‘prime’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 612). Yet Deakin, Fisher and Scullin all departed office at a similar age and were in serious physical decline. With their health intact, fallen leaders are nowadays much more equipped to forge a post-political public life – Fraser notes he was not at an age when he was ‘ready to retire’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 612). But the extra vitality might also render modern ex-leaders more prone to feelings of premature obsolescence and fantasies of their capability for continuing command. ‘Raging’ against successors Nearly all of the modern former PMs have been unable to resist sporadically sniping at successors through the media. The efficacy of such interventions has generally been limited even when focused on substantive policy

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questions. Criticisms of party opposites are usually treated as part of the partisan bi-play of politics and quickly shrugged off. They can also rebound. Keating’s frequent (and choleric) attacks on Howard during the latter’s premiership were seen as reflecting badly on him and the Labor opposition. Most arresting, however, have been relations on the Liberal side, which have been characterized by spectacular fallings-out between ex-officer holders and the party. Gorton’s wrath towards his Liberal successors was nourished by his defeat as PM in a party room coup in March 1971. A catalyst had been Fraser’s resignation from his ministry, who departed alleging disloyalty by Gorton. His other nemesis was McMahon, his deputy and the man whose ambition for the prime ministership had been thwarted when Gorton replaced Holt in 1968. When McMahon deposed Gorton in 1971, Gorton improbably accepted the deputy leadership but was soon dismissed for destabilizing conduct. He then used the freedom of the backbench to routinely dissociate himself from Liberal government policy. Gorton returned to the Liberal front bench after McMahon lost office, only to resign in fury when Fraser became leader in 1975. The breach between Gorton and Liberal Party was completed when he stood as an independent for the Senate at an election later that year and advocated a vote for Labor in the lower house (Hancock, 2002: 337, 346–62, 376–80). Fraser’s alienation from the Liberal Party during Howard’s prime ministership was more obviously anchored in philosophical differences. He emerged as an insistent public critic of the government’s position on human rights and its foreign policy. More generally, Fraser deplored the party’s realignment towards the conservative end of the ideological spectrum and diminution of ‘liberal principles’ under Howard’s leadership (Stewart, 2005; Fraser and Simons, 2010: ch. 22). So complete was Fraser’s disillusionment with the Howard government by its latter stages there are strong hints that, like Menzies before him, he disowned the Liberal Party at the ballot box (Australian Broadcasting Corporation, 2010b). For former leaders, the results of these long-standing feuds have been at best mixed. Fraser’s criticisms of Howard ‘brought him more media attention than he had had for years’ and gained him new-found admirers among those ‘who had once reviled him’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 734–5). Once despised by the left, by the 2000s Fraser was receiving standing ovations in packed university auditoriums. On the other hand, as Kevin Theakston has observed (2006: 449) in respect to the development of similarly antagonistic relations within the Conservative Party in Britain, such conduct can also be ‘self-defeating’ for ex-leaders by ‘costing’ them influence over their own party’. Gorton and Fraser both suffered this fate. Gorton was ostracized by the Liberals for many years. Only in the last years of his life was he rehabilitated (Henderson, 2000: 300–1). Equally, Fraser’s regular sallies against Howard left him isolated in the Liberal Party that he hoped to influence. He had to endure countless humiliations during the Howard era. For example, at a 2001 Liberal

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Party conference parts of the audience consciously snubbed Fraser by clattering cutlery as he was presented with a tribute on stage. Young Liberal organizations expressed their hostility to him by demanding he resign from the party (Hooper, 2005; Stewart, 2005): a step he seriously contemplated (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 714). This can be contrasted to the Labor side, where the tradition has been to treat ex-PMs with polite deference, even when their public pronouncements, viz. Keating, try the patience of successors and the party. ‘Self-justification’ Asked in 2005 why he had not written memoirs, Fraser responded that autobiographies too frequently became an exercise in ‘self-justification’ (Stewart, 2005). Though not the only outlet for defending the prime ministerial record, memoirs have become virtual standard practice for former leaders since the era of Menzies. Howard has dedicated much of his time since his 2007 defeat to chronicling his political career (van Onselen, 2009), while Fraser has recently completed a major autobiography. Conscious of his previous disavowal of the genre, Fraser insisted that his purpose was to address ‘a new generation about the true nature of liberalism’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 736). Their Liberal predecessors have also put pen to paper in defence of their prime ministerships. Gorton wrote a series of articles for Rupert Murdoch’s Sunday Australian vaingloriously titled ‘I Did It My Way’ (Hancock, 2002: 346–50). McMahon, usually judged the most undistinguished of Australia’s prime ministers in any era, hawked his memoirs to publishers but without success (Abjorensen, 2007). It is Whitlam, however, who set the benchmark for post-prime ministerial self-justification through print. He began with a closely argued account of the 1975 constitutional crisis (1979), which was later followed by an exhaustively researched and painstakingly comprehensive magnum opus on the policy-making record of his government (1985). He clearly regarded the latter as not merely a vehicle for setting the record straight on his prime ministership, but also as a catechism for the Labor Party going forward. Hawke’s memoir (1994) was also a door-stopper. The reaction to it illustrated that self-championing can be a counter productive exercise for former PMs. The book was roundly criticized as an exercise in self-aggrandizement and taken as confirmation that its author was a narcissist extraordinaire. He was also attacked for vindictiveness to Keating, the man who had prised the prime ministership from Hawke in 1991 (e.g. Anson, 1994; Carlyon, 1994; Jones, 1994). Ironically, it is Keating, who, despite eschewing memoirs, has probably been most unrelenting of recent ex-office holders in extolling his executive legacy. This has been complemented by his equal preoccupation with tearing down the record of Howard who beat him at the 1996 election.

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Moving on and filling the void What have former PMs of the modern era done in retirement and how has it differed from their predecessors? One thing they have not done is linger in parliament. McMahon is the exception, spending nine forgettable years on the backbench following his government’s defeat and towards the end irritating the Liberal Party with his reluctance to vacate his seat (Henderson, 1997). Whitlam is unique among the modern PMs in that he resumed as opposition leader after losing office in 1975. It was an unhappy experience that ended ignominiously when he led Labor to a second successive landslide defeat in 1977 (Ramsey, 2001: 122–5). Thereafter fallen PMs resigned the party leadership and exited parliament with almost indecent haste. After losing the 1983 election, Fraser told one former colleague that he feared if he had not quit ‘the party would have torn itself apart gnawing over my bones’. Ironically, given what was to come, he explained to another supporter that if he stayed on the backbench he ‘could so easily become a source of difficulty and division’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 614–15). Hawke and Keating both followed Fraser’s example by leaving the parliament within weeks of being deposed. The issue did not arise for Howard because he lost his seat when his government fell in 2007, but by then the pattern had become so established that it seemed almost unthinkable that any ex-PM would seek to remain in parliament let alone have another tilt at office. Rudd, however, has defied that trend, although only time will tell how meaningful and durable will be his post-leadership parliamentary career. Notably, this development of ex-leaders promptly leaving parliament is also apparent in the sub-national sphere of Australian politics as well as in other democracies such as Britain. Keane welcomes it for the reason that he argues it draws a clear demarcation between ‘holding and not holding office’ and militates against the recycling of political elites that occurs in a country like Italy (2009: 286–8). In a practical sense, it is another factor extending the length of political afterlives as well as compelling re-invention. In another way, modern ex-PMs are treated as anything but dispensable. In addition to a handsome parliamentary pension, they also receive generous additional entitlements that preserve their special status. Those entitlements have been progressively augmented. When Howard entered the post-political world in 2007 his retirement perks included a prime ministerial gold travel pass allowing him and his wife to up to 40 domestic air flights per year, two staff, an office, car and driver (Hart, 2008). Arguably, these trappings blur the line to which Keane refers as Howard’s retirement faux prime ministerial office possibly attests. With the option of remaining in parliament receding and with no comparable pathway as the High Commissionership, modern ex-PMs have occupied their political retirements with a diverse range of activities.4 Despite generous pensions, few have been slow to pursue commercial and business activities. They have been able to do so in the absence of regulatory constraint. Australia lagged behind comparable democracies in adopting codes of conduct in

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relation to post-parliamentary employment of ministers and only recently imposed a brief cooling off period on lobbying activities (McKeown, 2009). In some cases, former PMs have abided by self-imposed limits. Fraser aborted consultancy activities when he discovered that ‘companies wanted not his advice but for him to use his contacts and connections on their behalf’ (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 612). Other ex-office holders have been less circumspect; for example, McMahon was an advisor to various financial institutions, including the Bank of America. Publications advances for memoirs and lecture fees have been other staple earners for former leaders. Whitlam took things in quite another direction by cashing in on his larger than life reputation by appearing in advertisements endorsing photocopier and pasta sauce products. It is Hawke, though, who has become most notorious for hanging out his shingle once he left parliament as he built international business interests from his Sydney base (Brown, 2002: 182, 201). Yet his is also a cautionary tale for former leaders because his enthusiasm for money-making activities, combined with a well-publicized upheaval in his private life provoked censorious criticism (e.g. Blewett, 2000: 405). However, ex-PMs of the modern era have not merely occupied their political afterlives chasing financial enrichment. They have also busied themselves in civil society. Whitlam’s activities have been prolific. To name a few: he was a visiting fellow at the Australian National University in 1978 and visiting professor at the University of Adelaide in 1983, a mem-ber of the Constitutional Commission in the mid-1980s, chairman of the Australia-China Council (1986–91), chairman of the National Gallery of Australia (1987–90), and a member of the successful 1995 Sydney Olympic bid team. Fraser’s most prominent post-prime ministerial role was his founding in 1987 and chairmanship for the next decade and a half of CARE Australia, which was part of the network of the international CARE humanitarian aid organizations. Hawke co-chaired a 2002 review of the ALP following its third consecutive federal election loss the year before. He has also been an active patron of the Bob Hawke Prime Ministerial Centre and Hawke Research Institute, both based at the University of South Australia. Keating has been a visiting professor of public policy at the University of New South Wales. Nor have post-prime ministerial activities been confined to the domestic sphere. Coming from a geographically distant middle power, Australia’s former national leaders are less advantageously situated than, say their European counterparts, to become involved in the proliferating range of ‘governmental and non-governmental structures that operate at the regional and global level’ (Keane, 2009: 293–5). Moreover, the transition to the international arena has relied to a significant extent upon sponsorship by successors, which not all exholders have enjoyed. The Hawke government has been most generous. It appointed Whitlam Australian Ambassador to the Paris-based United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). Whitlam also served on the Independent Commission on International Humanitarian

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Issues and the World Heritage Committee while with UNESCO, and later chaired the General Assembly of the World Heritage Convention. Fraser is the other ex-PM to have strutted his stuff on the international stage. He was nominated by the Hawke government as Australia’s representative on the Commonwealth Group of Eminent Persons against Apartheid in South Africa, a grouping he co-chaired. He was also chair of the United Nations Secretary’s Expert Group on African Commodity Issues. His bid to become secretary-general of the Commonwealth failed, however, despite Australian government support. During the 1990s, Fraser was president and vice president of CARE international. Notwithstanding these achievements, neither Whitlam nor Fraser has matched the post-office international eminence attained by Bruce. Their sojourns also had the whiff of exile. Fraser consciously pursued international activities to remove himself from the domestic political scene (Fraser and Simons, 2010: 621) – a calculation that no doubt also occurred to his (and Whitlam’s) patrons in Canberra. Rudd’s angling for, and appointment by Julia Gillard to, the foreign affairs portfolio may in part have had a similar rationale.

Conclusions Prime ministerial afterlives have changed markedly in Australia. In the first half of the last century, it was not unusual for leaders to leave office feeling liberated, fagged out and impecunious. For much of that era, the High Commissionship in London served as a way station in the transition from public life for former PMs. It afforded financial sustenance and compensatory prestige for the loss of executive office, and in the case of Bruce became a platform for a major post-office career of international diplomacy. The High Commissionership also transported occupants outside the orbit of day-to-day Australian political life. In other cases, ill-health or premature death cut short or inhibited post-prime ministerial lives and removed ex-leaders from public consciousness. By contrast, the pattern that has congealed over the past four decades is for former PMs to be still vital upon leaving office, materially secure, restlessly active and regularly conspicuous. Several reasons have been proposed for this transformation. The increased centrality of the prime ministership to the nation’s political life and growth of its perks have undoubtedly rendered it more addictive for incumbents. Moreover, extended longevity has increased the prospect of there being alive at any one time a cohort of ex-PMs of able body and mind, while their access to generous pensions and other entitlements ensures they are also well resourced. Finally, the media fishbowl of modern life has greatly diminished the likelihood of prime ministerial survivors quietly slipping into obscurity. The growing ubiquity of ex-PMs has coincided with an era in which previously

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established post-office paths have eroded. It has become unorthodox for deposed leaders to stay in parliament and seek further ministerial office, and the option of the High Commissionership is also long gone. New opportunities have opened up, particularly in the international sphere, but the modern trends of post-prime ministerial public life remain on the whole inchoate. Public life after office has thus become both more commonplace and variegated. The challenges have changed. Former PMs no longer have to worry much about economic sustenance, but they wrestle with other insecurities attendant with heightened office dependency and inventing a meaningful (and prolonged) life in retirement. They have become more publicly fractious: peering over the shoulders of successors, defending past records and demanding attention in other ways. We should not confuse noise with influence. Australia passes Keane’s test for a well-defined demarcation between holding and leaving office. Not only do ex-leaders now get out of parliament hastily, but their retirement activities raise few concerns about them being recycled into government or linked power networks. Labor has been a better track record of elevating its former leaders to elder statesmen, but what influence they retain is more symbolic than substance: parties move on. What also seems to hedge the influence of ex-leaders in Australia is an ingrained cultural apathy, if not intolerance, towards them. In a country that has never had a strong tradition of memorializing or venerating former leaders, they are still largely ignored and their interventions reflexively given short shrift. There is little allowance for the ‘good works’, which ex-office-holders can carry out as guardians of good public policy and ethical standards in executive governance and as virtuous agents in civil society (Keane, 2009: 295). While he was still in office Australia’s most recently retired PM, Howard, mused about a ‘more mature approach’ to the nation’s ex-leaders (Henderson, 1997). It is something the country still awaits.

Notes 1 G. H. Reid (1917) My Reminisces (London: Cassell and Company), p. 365. 2 For much of the basic empirical data underpinning this chapter, I have relied on B. Galligan and W. Roberts (eds) (2007) The Oxford Companion to Australian Politics (Melbourne: Oxford University Press), pp. 655–7; and the National Archives of Australia, ‘Australia’s Prime Ministers’ website. Accessed March 2010 http://primeministers.naa.gov.au/primeministers/. 3 Keating’s successor as Labor Party leader. 4 Much of this information comes from the National Archives of Australia, ‘Australia’s Prime Ministers’ website. Accessed March 2010 http://primeministers.naa.gov.au/ primeministers/.

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13 How Power Changes Hands: Concluding Reflections Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr

Introduction Our aim with this volume has been to map out fresh initiatives in the study of political and administrative turnover which can test and refine existing interpretations of transitions and successions. The project is partly empirical and partly theoretical. The empirical dimension is about extending the evidence base and case material available to students of transitions and successions. The theoretical dimension is about assessing existing interpretations of political and administrative turnover against the findings emerging from this set of fresh investigations of change in transitions and successions. Our opening chapter framed the project by placing the chapters in the narrower context of existing research on transitions and successions in government. This concluding chapter draws on the empirical work in the preceding chapters to tease out the theoretical implications for the study of ‘power changing hands’ within political systems. Our hope is that we can in turn stimulate further empirical and theoretical research building on our findings in ways that strengthen scholarly understanding of just how such changes occur and how they play themselves out. We carry out this concluding task in three steps. First, to clarify where our project comes from, we revisit the two species of ‘power changing hands’ captured in the project’s organizing categories of governing elite transitions and leadership successions. Second, to build a bridge between where our project comes from to where we see it going, we pay particular attention to the relevance of the qualifying term ‘government’ in our title, which defines the broad field of social science interest that our project addresses. Third, in order to specify the potential relevance of our findings to research on ‘government’, we revisit the two sets of research perspectives relating to transitions and to successions which we sketched in our opening chapter. Here we round out those earlier provisional sketches with two pictures of richer detail (one on transitions and one on successions) drawn from the project’s evidence and findings. 230

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Power changing hands While the two shorthand terms of ‘transitions’ and ‘successions’ are useful, they are too general to capture the distinctive research preoccupations of the two sets of research investigations published in this collection under those two broad headings. Not simply any transitions or any successions were selected for inclusion in this project: the research cases were selected on the basis of fitting a more targeted profile of governing elite transitions and leadership successions. Let us therefore reset the focus on the larger study of power and of leadership, noting where transitions and successions fit. Governing elite transitions The subject of ‘power’ is at or near the very centre of the social sciences. Power can be personal or institutional. Power is an important attribute of individuals, with many types of personal power conferring value and importance on individuals. Power is also a vital social attribute: every society is organized around the management of power, with different types of power defining different types of society, and with many different forms of power marking out different power-centres in each type of society. Power can be extracted, willingly or unwillingly, from its original possessors or it can be imposed by the powerful on the relatively powerless. Power can also be dispersed or shared across many participating individuals or institutions, either to strengthen the overall capacity or to weaken the potential for misuse by any one individual or institution. The patterns of power are important not only for so-called realist but also avowedly critical studies of society: power is the focal point of attempts to describe and to evaluate core social relations. Concepts of power have themselves undergone transition and succession. The historical origins of modern society are associated with influential theoretical debates over power and how best to constitute the public management of power. English political philosophers like Thomas Hobbes and John Locke are good examples of this concern over the challenging capacities of personal and social power which, if not properly managed, could thwart the path of social and political development now associated with the rise of modernity. The ambiguous nature of power as an important public instrument for modern government emerges first in Hobbes, whose Leviathan tries to demonstrate how power has to be centralized under the authority of a sovereign armed with undivided coercive power to use for carefully prescribed limited public purposes: most notably, the peace and security of the public realm. The solution to the problem of endemic power struggles within society is to transfer power from society to government, suitably reconstructed as a representative institution to protect the interests of those it represents. The more typically liberal blueprint of public power

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emerges later in Locke who devises an influential account of liberal constitutionalism with ‘government’ broken up into three branches (executive, legislative, judicial) in order to promote civil liberties on the foundations of peace and security established by Hobbes. Public power is thus restrained through constitutional separations of power exercised by rival power-holders. Although political debate over power, elites and transitions of rulers goes back to classical times, modern social science interest is framed by the liberal-constitutional perspective derived from such influential thinkers as Locke. We think of transitions in terms that would have been familiar to Locke, who was preoccupied with questions of political legitimacy arising from the rites of passage as governmental power passed through successive hands. Liberal-constitutional power is delegated power, with the people alone vested with sovereign power, some of which they delegate to their chosen representatives. We can think of this as an original vertical transition of power celebrated for example by Hobbes and Locke in the language and imagery of ‘the social contract’. The historical development of liberal-constitutional regimes unfolds increasingly complex norms and practices for what we might term horizontal transitions of power regulating the arrival and departure of each wave of legitimate holders of governmental power, with the rule of law stretched in different ways to cover the circumstances of the three increasingly independent branches of public power: the political executive, the legislature and the judiciary. The ‘power transitions’ highlighted in this volume deal primarily with transitions in and out of the political executive: with the arrival and departure of newly elected governments. The main exception is the chapter by Uhr, Bach and Massiciotte which shows how transitions in executive branches are often qualified by counter-transitions or non-transitions in legislative branches. Liberal-democratic governmental powers are shared powers, as in this case of executive and legislative branches sharing public powers even to the point of affecting the transition plans of incoming governments. But clarity of analysis usually means that researchers examine power transitions in the one branch or department of government, typically the executive branch where relationships between political and administrative executive officials provides fascinating case material for our second topic: leadership successions. Leadership successions Succession summons up pictures of ‘success’, as in the case of a successful campaign to displace departed, retiring, opposed or discredited powerholders. But the ‘success’ in question depends on the qualities of leadership displayed first in the process of succession and later in the practices of the newly-won leadership powers. Our interest in leadership successions is in part an interest in the bridging process used by successors to move from

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‘outside’ to ‘inside’ (or ‘follower’ to ‘leader’, ‘downstairs’ to ‘upstairs’ and from ‘back office’ to ‘front office’). This dimension of our interest deals with the displacement and replacement of predecessors. In some ways, it is a classic change-management story, where success is measured by the least amount of agony and disruption caused by the process. But our interest also addresses a second dimension of succession related to the leadership credentials of those undergoing succession (newcomers compared to those being replaced) and in the wider leadership capacity that the succession might be hoped to strengthen. These two dimensions remind us that the study of leadership is not simply the study of those with claims to lead. Their claims can be tested against standards of leadership, if we are prepared to construct flexible standards that fit the many different circumstances in which leaders function. So too when examining leadership succession part of the task is to chart when, how and why replacements of individual power holders take place, and to reflect on what these patterns of succession convey. Which leadership powers and capacities have been strengthened (or indeed weakened) through these succession processes? How have they altered the institutional balance between the office of leader in question and those of government and party institutions around it? To what extent have they affected the legitimacy of these offices and the broader political system in which they are embedded? In short: a succession story is not solely about changing faces or changing places; it is also about evolving structures and contexts for exercising public leadership. The theme of leadership is related to that of power. Leaders exercise power: leaders require power; and the public management of the powers of government requires leaders. Some public leaders display forms of leadership with largely informal powers, sometimes influencing government and sometimes bypassing the formal apparatus of state institutions. Examples include those non-government leaders (these days including politically active celebrities) exercising moral power which can influence the conduct of willing followers and even, through its role in shaping community opinion, restrain the conduct of sceptical public officials in systems of supposedly representative government (Kane, 2000; ’t Hart and Tindall, 2009). With these cases of largely informal leadership, the transition process is likely to be highly personal, testing claimants’ ability to compete for the mantle of moral authority of their predecessors. In this world of personalized leadership, qualities of personal character predominate in any succession process, where the power of ‘personality’ is a relevant test of succession. More tightly structured are the transitions and succession processes in those front-stage, formal offices where leaders can wield very formal powers. As evident from the Cross and Blais chapter as well as the Laing and ’t Hart chapter, personal attributes and power struggles remain highly visible in party leadership transitions. They are however more obscured and even downplayed in public

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service successions, where they are routinely subordinated to ‘objectified’ succession criteria such as policy skill and administrative competence.

Where is ‘government’ in this picture? Our project has been explicitly about government. The examples of transitions and successions chosen by our researchers have shared this focus on government (stretched somewhat to also include successions within the political parties that get to hold or participate in government from time to time). Government is one of the most prominent sites for exercising of public power. As mentioned above, the architecture of public power in modern society deals with a fundamental dilemma facing modern government: how can the regulatory power of government be safely entrusted into the hands of public representatives whose personal interests will not divert the proper uses of those powers from the public benefits expected of them? Government must be empowered not for its own sake but for the sake of the public it represents. This volume has addressed two important aspects of this liberalconstitutional architecture of public power. Our transitions researchers help us probe into the value and trustworthiness of democratic procedures for managing the transition of modern government’s formal executive powers from one political team to another. So too our succession researchers help us assess different succession rules and practices for managing the safe succession of holders of high political office inside or close to executive government. Government features most prominently in our set of transition stories. Simms carefully compares two national case studies of ‘caretaker conventions’ devised by Australian and New Zealand authorities to regulate the use of government powers during election periods. These are classic instances of harm-minimization safeguards designed to restrict the abuse of the powers of government by political executives at times when their tenure is up for public reassessment. Errington and Walter compare leading opposition and government figures in closely-related studies which demonstrate the function that checks and balances can have in managing expectations of incoming leaders about their powers and responsibilities. The study by Uhr, Bach and Massiciotte examines the checks and balances arising from separated executive and legislative powers which potentially restrain the use of executive powers by incoming governments. Higley and Pakulski’s reflections on Pareto’s elite theory shows yet another balancing dynamic (though less of an explicit safeguard) at work in modern government in the alternation between two different types of governing elites identified by Pareto in his language of lions and foxes. Government is also present in the succession chapters, even if hidden beneath the surface of conventional accounts of governmental power. The

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chapters by Cross and Blais, and by Laing and ’t Hart, on party leader succession examine how political parties both inside and outside government continuously assess leadership performance and leadership potential within their own ranks. They do so through a remarkable array of potentially forceful checks and balances that keep incumbent party leaders alert to the realities of internal competitive selection. Likewise, the Dowding and McLeay chapter compares two national experiences regarding the (im)prudence exercised by prime ministers in managing both their governments and their senior party colleagues through a politics of (de)selection (i.e. cabinet accession, promotion, demotion, and exit). Government functions by virtue of its ability to exercise authority (power accepted as legitimate). Likewise, individuals arriving into high political or administrative office within government will need to establish themselves as wielders of that authority. Atkins’ chapter tackles the administrative side of the equation by sketching the self-defeating nature of currently common ways in which incoming public managers assert themselves in their new roles, before outlining an alternative and more promising pathway. Subasˇic´ and Reynolds’ study of social-identify frameworks for analysing political successions (as well as, potentially, transitions) shows how (government) leaders seek to establish and consolidate authority by narratives in which the boundaries and relations between ‘us’ and ‘them’ are selectively hardened or softened. They can try to portray themselves as ‘the one’ to save ‘us’ from those who are not like us, or they can try to renegotiate who ‘we’ are in the first place, and play down rather than sharpen the salience of some of the distinctions that exist between us and them. Depending on whether they read the mood of their intended followers correctly, such postures can make or break their own authority and that of the governments they lead. Finally, Strangio’s chapter opens up speculation about the end of the road in succession, when the outgoing office-holder needs to let go of government leadership. He notes that an increasing number of such former heads of government will not just be willing but also young and fit enough to somehow try to get back into the game of public leadership, either inside or outside official government or party roles. This growing reservoir of able-bodied, ambitious former leaders is, of course, a deeply ambiguous phenomenon: enhanced opportunities for key roles in managing the public’s business open up; but also a potentially vociferous choir of critics with potentially significant nuisance value for incumbent governments and their leaders.

Main findings We can spell out some of the main findings from our chapters before we go on to tease out the larger implications for future research. Our first chapter

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identified the main research questions tackled by the authors in the ‘transitions’ and ‘successions’ sets of chapters. There our point was to note the variety of research perspectives adopted by our research team, observing that the set of five chapters on ‘transitions’ differ in research design from the set of six chapters on ‘successions’, and that within each set there are different approaches and methodologies. We now highlight a set of findings that characterizes the collection as a whole to give readers a useful summary statement of what the evidence from these research projects tells us about ‘transitions’ and ‘successions’. The transitions set of chapters provides surprising evidence about the dynamics of power changes when one political team replaces another. Students of democratic power transitions have a rich array of fresh evidence to draw on to broaden their hypotheses when trying to account for the success and failure of different types of transitions. For starters, Higley and Pakulski demonstrate that what we hold as ‘evidence’ about transitions expands and shrinks according to the theoretical perspectives we apply and that Pareto’s analytical framework, when put to an empirical test, foregrounds fascinating evidence of transition between two modal types of ruling elites. The evidence comes from their empirical comparison between the USA and Australia, or between a large and diversified global power and a smaller middle power often working in international alliances with the larger power. Does the evidence really confirm that the ruling political elites in both systems are transiting from leonine to vulpine governing modes? Higley and Pakulski admit that it is too early to tell, but in many ways their main point is that none of this evidence of modal types in transition would have come to light but for their unorthodox use of Pareto’s social theory of elite types as a guide to ‘what evidence to look for’. Most of the other chapters in the transitions set are less explicitly theorydriven; they instead adduce evidence about power dynamics from empirical case studies of transitions. The researchers have in each case tested conventional wisdom by contrasting conventional practices of transition with exceptional or unconventional practices, hoping thereby to uncover evidence to help explain why some transitions are more effective and others less so. Thus, Walter compares models of leadership transition in his contrast between unconventional ‘managerial’ political transitions which tend to survive through several elections and conventional transitions led by political ‘messiahs’ which tend to fail at early electoral hurdles. Walter’s extensive comparison of Australian political transitions since the 1970s reveals the importance of evidence of the ‘personal style’ of incoming leaders, so that the exceptional ‘managerial’ types (e.g., Hawke) direct more effective transitions from opposition to government than do ‘messiah’ types conventionally encouraged by structures of political opposition (e.g., Whitlam). Errington in turn puts Walter’s focus on personal leadership style to the test by producing evidence of the importance of structures of

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parliamentary opposition to prepare exceptional opposition leaders for the transition to government. Few opposition leaders make the transition from leading the losers to leading the winners, and Errington’s group portrait of two UK and two Australian exceptional leaders is evidence of how prior mastery of opposition resources is beneficial for later mastery of government resources, and of how this political skill first manifests itself in the transition process. Evidence of constitutional norms and practices is also important in our researchers’ contribution to the evidence about effective transitions. The chapter by Uhr, Bach and Massicottte balances the chapter by Simms, with the former dealing with evidence about ‘contested transitions’ under three separation of powers regimes and the latter dealing with evidence about ‘caretaker conventions’ in Westminster-derived parliamentary systems. Both of these chapters uncover evidence about barriers and obstacles to effective transitions which typically delay or frustrate new governments. In the former case, the evidence is that bicameralism complicates transitions by providing opposition parties a safe refuge where they can share control over legislative power while conceding executive power to the new governing party. In the latter case, the evidence is that constitutional norms regulating ‘caretaker conventions’ prove increasingly contentious for governments when approaching elections, as opposition challengers try to ‘level the playing field’ of party politics by enforcing rules that rob governing parties of some of the core advantages of incumbency. The evidence from both chapters shows how hard (e.g., written and entrenched) and soft (e.g., flexible guidelines) constitutional structures affect the way we define transitions and the ways that political leaders compete for more than simply executive power: for legislative power where that is separately available in one or more branches of the legislature, and for caretaker powers where there are constitutional conventions curtailing the available power at the disposal of governing parties. The set of chapters on succession is intriguing in that they offer different but complementary vantage points and loci of analysis for understanding (and evaluating) succession practices. The Atkins and the Strangio chapter helps us understand succession dynamics solely through the prism of the individual leader, whether it is a new (Atkins) or an outgoing (Strangio) one. In their analysis, it is the leader’s personal capabilities, drive and style that shape their fate in the post-succession context. Atkins focuses on the new leader’s ability to remain reflective, open-minded and empathic towards staff and colleagues, instead of shooting straight into decisive, ‘I-know-best’ ‘action’ mode. Strangio focuses on the resilience former leaders need to carve out a meaningful post-executive existence. Their personal health, ambition and flexibility play an important role in this, but he also points out that contextual (the former leader’s standing in their party and in government circles more widely) and institutional (pension and allowances

238 How Power Changes Hands: Concluding Reflections

factors feed into their post-prime ministerial career choices and desires to remain in (or to disappear from) the public sphere. In the Dowding and McLeay chapter, the focus is also squarely on one individual, though not the leader whose position is at stake in succession episodes. Their focus is on the role of prime ministers as decision-makers about the careers of the members of the cabinets they lead. But their study of British and New Zealand practices demonstrates clearly that prime ministers are hardly free agents in this regard. Their choices in managing cabinet composition are shaped to a considerable extent by forces of circumstance: the factional power or other political clout of ministers (e.g. ‘Big Beasts’), media criticism and parliamentary ‘flack’ that ministers – and therefore the government as a whole – are enduring, and of course the exigencies of the electoral cycle. The principal-agent perspective that Dowding and McLeay present in capturing some of these dynamics is a useful reminder that all senior public office-holders that we commonly refer to as ‘leaders’ are in fact always embedded in webs of hierarchy, representation or reciprocity. They can be held to account by more senior leaders or bodies – including by means of involuntary rotation or dismissal – when their actions become a focus of political debate. The Laing and ’t Hart chapter focuses on the fact that the fates of incumbent, aspiring and outgoing leaders are closely intertwined in a tactical game of coexistence, cooperation and at times open conflict within their parties and governments. Their dataset study makes it abundantly clear that any attempt to build a presently non-existing theory of leadership succession should take into account the dynamic interplay between these individuals and the party factions and power brokers aligned to them. In the Reynolds and Subasˇic´ chapter, the focus is also on relations rather than individuals, but the relation they argue that is most pivotal is that between leaders (whether aspiring or incumbent) and the groups they purport to lead. The only other chapter in the succession set besides Dowding and McLeay’s whose analysis is grounded in an explicit theoretical framework (in this case social identity theory), it introduces a comprehensive framework for understanding the success and failure of leader’s authority claims. Turning many conventional notions about leadership on their heads, the social identity approach claims that people can only become leaders when they successfully embody and appeal to the momentarily salient dimensions of ‘we-ness’ in the groups from which they emerge. However, Reynolds and Subasˇic´ also show that individual leaders have considerable scope for ‘identity entrepreneurship’ – including demonizing ‘outgroups’ and otherwise fostering exclusivist notions of ‘we-ness’ – in raising or dampening particular types of identity considerations. Though tentative and exploratory, their chapter puts the psychological contract between groups and their leaders squarely on the agenda of succession (and indeed transition) research.

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Finally, the Cross and Blais chapter goes beyond psychological contracts to look squarely at the role of institutional rules of the game governing how groups (in their case political parties) select and dismiss their leaders. These rules formalize some of the principal-agent dynamics also discussed in the Dowding and McLeay chapter: they allow (elites within) parties to control those who are nominally put ‘in charge.’ These rules continue to evolve within political parties, with a firm though not universal move towards ‘democratization’ being visible in recent years. This chapter uses evidence from parties in five Westminster countries to demonstrate how such rules make for remarkably different degrees of ‘job security’ among party leaders. Selecting leaders in is one thing; selecting them ‘out’ can be quite another. The Cross and Blais chapter shows us that we should look at both sides of the succession coin, with leader removal perhaps the most sensitive issue (witness the ruthless way in which the parliamentary Australian Labor Party got rid of its hitherto extremely successful but internally disliked leader and prime minister Kevin Rudd in June 2010). The key variables in this regard are: whether a formal leader removal mechanism exists at all; whether the extra parliamentary party must in some way act to remove the leader; and when the parliamentary party has this authority, whether it is in any significant way encumbered in its use. Taken together, the studies reported in this volume map out a broad terrain empirically as well as conceptually. In the final section of this chapter, we reflect on the roadmap for future research that may be drawn on the basis of the work presented here.

Transition and succession research avenues By way of conclusion, we present some lines of inquiry beyond the current project. Revisiting the analytical perspectives identified in the introductory chapter in light of the findings of the chapters that followed provides important clues to transition and succession research priorities. Constitutional perspectives on transition Structures of government regulate many aspects of governmental transition. Regular popular elections provide most political communities with opportunities to have their say about the elected representatives competing for government office. But most constitutional arrangements leave many of the most important practical decisions over who wins and who loses in government transitions processes to the transitory team of political insiders, particularly party-political power-holders. Few liberal-democratic constitutions attempt to do very much to regulate the internal operations of political parties which are, in many ways, the really important power centres of representative government. The participation of voters is often subject to more extensive government regulation than the conduct of elected

240 How Power Changes Hands: Concluding Reflections

and administrative party officials who can use their considerable insider power to change the electoral team at the top of party tickets. Even heads of governments are under the watchful eye of backroom party operatives who see their role as ‘protecting the brand’ of the party against any diminishing reputation that a leadership team might suffer. Simms notes that prime ministers have become increasingly strong drivers of transition processes. Another crucial area for further exploration therefore is the extent to which the political calculus of prime ministers can come to dominate and indeed compromise the integrity of the public service’s obligation to safeguard the continuity of administration in a neutral and restrained manner during the caretaker period (whilst at the same time feverishly preparing parallel sets of highly politically sensitive briefs for the post-transition period). Leadership perspectives on transition How do aspiring heads of government prepare themselves, their parties and their publics for transition? To what extent are their pre- and post-transition postures shaped by their broader political personality and their socialization into leadership roles? And, perhaps most fundamental of all, to what extent are the leaders of election-winning parties actually able to put their personal stamp on the substance, composition and style of the new governments they front up? Errington’s and Walter’s chapters suggest that such questions are worth examining in greater detail, both within and across polities. On their accounts, the answers to these questions appear to vary considerably from leader to leader and transition to transition. Whether this variation is random or patterned across parties, time, and political systems is one puzzle that systematic comparative research should address. Also, we need more systematic examination of Errington’s assertion that opposition experiences are important predictors of prime ministers’ early modes of operation. The same goes for Walter’s claim that there probably is some correlation between prime ministerial transition styles and the success if not the longevity of the governments they lead. Such research should reach well beyond their focus on Westminster, single-party or fixed-coalition governments, and open up to the possibility that the imperatives and options for prime ministers of multi-party coalition governments common in polities with proportional representation electoral arrangements. Executive government perspectives on transition A broader executive government perspective on transition requires going beyond the contributions to this volume and examines the dynamics of political-administrative relations during the post-transition ‘settling in’ process of a new government. Even in the Westminster system with its alleged norms of bureaucratic impartiality and professionalism (in self-conscious

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 241

contradistinction to the ‘government of strangers’ produced by the American spoils system, cf. Heclo, 1976), new political masters can choose to change the rules of the game governing the relationships between themselves and the agencies and administrators in their portfolio. For one, they can choose to retain or dismiss top executives. In Australia, for example, in 1996 the incoming liberal Howard government sacked six department heads within a week of taking office. In late 2007 the arrival of its successor, the Labor Rudd government, was therefore anticipated with trepidation by the senior cadres of the public service. To great relief, Rudd chose to publicly emphasize their adherence to the ‘Westminster norm’ of placing trust in the competence as well as the responsiveness of the permanent bureaucracy they had inherited. Both opposing styles of dealing with this inheritance constitute signals that new governments send to the bureaucracy. And as always in the game of communication, the medium is the message: does the new government speak softly, or does it wield its big stick when it comes to deciding the fate of the leaders of the ‘permanent’ bureaucracy? With much of the attention focused on the dramas of personalities and careers, it is easy to forget that new governments possess various other means of reshaping the politicsadministration nexus. They can change key procedural rules of the government game: cabinet submission routines that bureaucrats need to observe. They can install, change or scrap the contents or indeed the existence of public service performance agreements. They can limit or maximize the access that public servants enjoy to them. They can appoint political street fighters or collaborative policy wonks as their chiefs of staff. What they cannot do, is to completely ignore their strong dependence on the performance of the bureaucracy. At the end of the day, governments get judged to a significant extent by the results they achieve; and the bulk of the delivery that makes or breaks those results will always be done or managed by their bureaucracies. So both parties have a lot riding on making a productive start to the new working relationship. There is however no systematic comparative study of the principles and practices by which new political rulers ‘join up’ with existing bureaucracies, and their effects on the productivity of their subsequent collaboration. Such research is much needed, not in the least from a practical perspective. When speaking off the record, many bureaucrats confess that their common mode of receiving new governments is somewhat stale and definitely suboptimal. They note that the traditional emphasis on providing piles of briefings, thorough options papers and business-like eagerness to ‘get on with the job’ under the new management, studiously avoids the pivotal dimension of interpersonal trust-building across what may well seem to both parties to be an ocean of differences. Westminster norms notwithstanding, for potentially cagey, inexperienced new governments, the sheer number of officials they are now responsible for and the

242 How Power Changes Hands: Concluding Reflections

knowledge that all of them have worked for the previous government may be a major impediment to according the trust bureaucrats know they can not do without. Something similar can be expected under the radar that protects government bureaucracy from intrusive public gaze. What needs to be known next is the extent to which the new configuration of outside forces (politicians, their mates, peak bodies and other organized interests) that is formed on the wings of transition, modify not just the bureaucracy ‘authorizing environment’ but also affect its very internal composition and ‘operational capacity’ (Moore, 1995). The standard picture is one of merit-protected processes complying with norms of strict impartiality, counterbalanced by an expectation of responsiveness to the (new) ‘government of the day’. Impressionistic evidence of recent transitions suggests limits to this picture, as various forms of favouritism and partisanship have led some to fear that more and more, political forces conducing towards bureaucratic ‘hyper-responsiveness’ are crowding out Westminster traditions of impartiality and professionalism (Mulgan, 2007). The question is whether such impressions are borne out by larger-N comparative study, and if so, what can be done to ameliorate this syndrome. Power perspectives on succession Studies of succession often differ in one important respect from studies of transitions. Both deal of course with choices about the future. Transitions mostly have regular and predictable timetables, such as electoral dates. Successions are less predictable and more insidious: they can strike almost at any time. Many deposed leaders ended up as such by complete surprise to themselves and their supporters. Transitions are competitions for authority; successions are as well, but they are more fundamentally competitions for power. Transition studies of government can show the phases in the move from opposition into public authority without having to explain the origins of the power that enabled the move into government. Succession studies in contrast are more mindful of the rough and tumble of Roman or Renaissance style court politics. They need to come to terms with the over-the-shoulder anxiety by powerholders about ‘who’s moving up’, the speculations and the plots, and the brooding presence of ambitious leadership aspirants biding their time until the time to strike seems right. They deal with the claims and machinations of the people who carry the case for the party or institution obtaining power. At the very root of that story is some explanation of how those individuals (plan to) use the resources at their disposal. We will know more about successions in political and governmental organizations when we can better explain why some individuals or groups are more successful in mobilizing and managing the power that makes their succession plans succeed.

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Laing and ’t Hart note that political leaders engage in a delicate balancing act in order to survive and thrive. The classic twin imperatives of public popularity and high standing in the party do not necessarily align, yet maintaining both is needed in order to effectively lead. They observe that whilst conventional party wisdom might identify the perfect successor as one who stresses continuity and loyalty with the former leader, has strong and abiding links within the party, and succeeds his predecessor unchallenged and universally accepted, the findings of their comprehensive dataset study suggests that when parties get restless in the face of political adversity, a maverick populist who emphasizes a clean break with party policy and takes down his predecessor in a party-room showdown might have just as much (indeed, if not more) chance of successfully leading the party into the future. With their findings – and with Subasˇic´ and Reynolds’ intriguing model of the role of identity entrepreneurship in power consolidation in mind – studying more carefully how government leaders win, preserve, and lose, their positions and their political capital is therefore an important research domain. Accountability perspectives on succession Democratic leaders are accountable for their exercise of public power. Studies of succession show how this accountability operates: how it is managed and how it can be subverted, by leaders and by the constituencies and forums that select and empower them but may also curtail them or even strip them of their offices. Cross and Blais’ chapter is a prime example, in its examination of the extent to which the prevailing rules for selecting and deselecting party leaders enable MP’s, party elites or ordinary members to hold those leaders to account. They blaze a trail worth following, as the connections between various (de)selection mechanisms and key party/ government leader attributes such as their authority, responsiveness and longevity are as yet ill understood. Above and beyond their focus on formal party mechanisms for leader (de)selection, we need also to track the informal, and partly invisible accountability dynamics governing leadership succession. We need studies of the hidden claims of obligation leaders owe to influential interests in the backroom of any organization (e.g. the ‘big beasts’ noted in Dowding and McLeay’s chapter, but also non-cabinet party power brokers, campaign financiers, bosses of organized interests or, these days, celebrity endorsers). Such studies should go ‘inside’ the politics of party leadership in order to help us grasp and asses the significance of these vital inside, informal and invisible dimensions of accountability (as compared to that of outside, formal and transparent ones) in shaping the coming and going of political leaders and the careers of ministers. As noted in the introduction, there are some gripping single case accounts of this variety written by political journalists and historians (Reid, 1969; Koerfer, 1987[1998]), but there is as

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yet no systematic political anthropology of party leadership or prime ministerial leadership. Towards evaluation? Finally, we acknowledge the need for more explicit and systematic assessment for both succession and transition regimes. That original manual in succession management, Machiavelli’s The Prince, blended short- and longterm outcomes in its measurement of success in acquiring power: shortterm goals like replacing existing rulers and long-term goals such as the glory that can come from using newly-won powers for great accomplishments. Machiavelli’s The Prince is also revealing in another way: this work introduced the analytical study of power politics into the front rank of political studies and thereby overhauled traditional evaluation frameworks used in the study of government and politics. The Prince dramatized politics with its case studies of political theatre and the ways of stage-managing political succession. Machiavelli’s work is replete with valuable case studies of succession that remain dramatically rewarding for those searching for ways of evaluating succession as political performance. But as we reported in our introductory chapter, democratic legitimacy might demand stricter standards of transparency and inclusiveness which, we can only hope, produce modes of succession that measure up as sustainable democratic expressions of legitimate leadership selection. Various chapters in this collection contain implicit judgements about the effectiveness, legitimacy or desirability of various modes or styles of transition/succession (e.g. Walter; Simms, Cross and Blais, and particularly Atkins). Laing and ‘t Hart even follow the example set in the opening chapter and attempt to offer criteria sets to be used in evaluating successions, suggesting they should be assessed in terms of their effects on policy, party popularity and regime legitimacy. That said, the contributions in this volume already stop short of delivering on the empirical question concerning what consequences different modes of transition and succession may have. And they are far removed from engaging systematically with the thorny normative question which mode of transition or succession is to be preferred over others in which institutions and/or sets of circumstances. Until we take up this challenge, our ability to provide practical advice about transition and succession management remains constrained. Filling this void is perhaps the most important but also the most challenging of the avenues for further research that emerges from this volume.

Bibliography ’t Hart, P. and Tindall, K. (2009) ‘Leadership by the famous: Celebrity as political capital’, in J. Kane, H. Patapan and P. ’t Hart (eds) Dispersed Democratic Leadership: Origins, Dynamics and Implications (Oxford: Oxford University Press), pp. 255–78.

Paul ’t Hart and John Uhr 245 Heclo, H. (1976) A Government of Strangers (Washington, D.C.: Brookings). Kane, J. (2001) The Politics of Moral Capital (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Koerfer, D. (1987) [1998] Der Kampf ums Kanzleramt (Munich: Propylaen). Moore, M. (1995) Creating Public Value: Strategic Management in Government (Cambridge: Harvard University Press). Mulgan, R. (2007) ‘Truth in government and the politicization of public service advice’, Public Administration, 85(3), 569–86. Reid, A. (1969) The Power Struggle (Sydney: Shakespeare Head Press).

Index

Abbott, Tony, 32, 186, 187 accountability perspectives, on succession, 13, 15–16, 243–4 see also succession ACT, New Zealand, 140, 144, 145, 152, 172n5 adverse selection, 159–60 New Zealand experience, 168–70 UK experience, 162–4 agency rent, 158–9, 170 New Zealand experience, 164–8 UK experience, 160–2 agenda-setting, 58, 59, 66 agent-shirking see shirking aspirants, 116–21 Australia, 6, 8, 95, 101, 134, 136, 143, 152, 174, 175 decision-making units in Cabinet system, 40 executive government perspectives on transition, 241 framework of constitutional government, 86–91 executive power, 87 judicial power, 87 legislative power, 87–8 leonine ascendancy in, 31–3 opposition leadership and, 58 prime ministerial afterlives in see prime ministerial afterlives, in Australia, 208–26 rules for restraining incumbency, 101–5 senatorial transition in, 88–91 Australian Labor Party (ALP), 87, 102 Australian Public Service new leadership role, demands of, 192 authentic leadership, 196–9 authentic behaviour, 197–8 balanced processing, 198 relational transparency, 197 self-awareness, 198 see also leadership

authority, 12, 15, 177, 178 democratic, 2 power transition in, 9 Barton, Edmund, 210 income, 215 influence of, 213 Beazley, Kim, 44, 102 behavioural integrity, 197–8 bias availability, 195 confirmation, 195 bicameralism, 11, 73–92 big beasts, 159–60, 162, 163, 164, 169–70 Blair, Tony, 136, 161–2, 174, 184 learning to lead in opposition, 71 nationalism, 67, 68 New Labour project, 62 opposition leadership and, 55, 57, 59 political learning in opposition influence, 64, 65–6 Bloc Québécois, 85, 140, 144 Bolger, Jim, 135, 150, 158, 165, 166, 170 Brash, Don, 150, 151 Bringing Them Home report (1997), 68 Brown, Gordon, 45, 70–1, 149, 162, 163, 169, 174 policy fiefdoms, 64 Bruce, Stanley Melbourne, 211 coming back to Australia, 214 as High Commissioner, 214 as inaugural chancellor of the Australian National University, 214 income, 215 influence of, 213 international diplomacy, 214 representative at League of Nations, 214 Bruton, John, 136, 151, 154n5 bureaucracy, 6, 12, 15 authorizing environment, 241–2 hyper-responsiveness, 242 246

Index 247 Bush, George W., 45, 175, 187 administration, 29–30 butchers, 159, 160, 166, 171 Cabinet Government, 96, 97, 99 Cabinet Manual, 99, 100 cabinet ministers, 12, 14, 15, 16 Canada, 80–6, 134, 136, 137, 152 Charlottetown Accord, 82 Constitution Act of 1867, 84 Meech Lake Accord, 81 new government, options for, 83–6 Penitentiary Act, 82 senatorial transitions in, 82 senators, options for, 82–3 CARE Australia, 224 Malcolm Fraser and, 225 caretaker conventions, 11, 94, 237 caretaker periods, and management of transitions, 94–5 checks and balances, 4, 234, 235 chief executives, 13, 14, 15 Chrétien, Jean, 82, 83, 135, 149–50 Clark, Helen, 99, 101, 103, 106, 164, 165, 167, 168, 169, 170 Clinton, Bill, 77 administration, 29, 34 Coalition Government, 3, 95 collaborative action planning, 202–3 collaborative problem solving, 197 collaborative sense-making, 202 Collective Responsibility, 98–9 Committee of Officials, 99 Commonwealth Electoral Act (CEA), 102, 103 conflicted successions, 126–7 see also successions consensus seekers, 159, 161, 167, 171 Conservative party, UK, 135, 136, 137, 140, 144, 149, 151, 152 consociational democracies, 11 constitutional perspectives, on transition, 10, 239–40 consultative leadership, 197 see also leadership contested transitions, 73–92, 237 Australia, 86–91 Canada, 80–6 dispersed power and, 91–2 United States of America, 76–9

see also transition contextual factors, 7 Conventions, 94 Cook, Joseph, 211 coming back to Australia, 215 influence of, 213–14 Costello, Peter, 70, 174 Costigan Royal Commission, 104 cronyism, 161–2 Curtin, John, 87, 210 database, 112 dataset, 9, 17, 112, 114, 115, 118, 120, 122, 124, 127, 128 Deakin, Alfred, 211, 220 influence of, 213 poor health, 212 Defence of the Realm Acts, 98 demagogic plutocracy, 26 see also plutocracy democracy, 4, 6, 12, 17, 94, 112 consociational democracies, 11 degrees of popular control, 4–5 democratic transitions, 3–4, 9–10 parliamentary democracies, 2, 8, 13 and peaceful transition, 1–2 working democracy, 1 democratic consolidation, 4 democratic leadership, 111 democratic transitions, 3–4, 9–10 see also transition dialogue, 201–2 Diefenbaker, John, 82, 83, 124, 136, 137, 148 dispersed power, 91–2 divided government, United States of America, 77–8 division, politics of, 181, 182, 184 dominators, 157, 159, 161, 162, 165, 167, 169, 171 Douglas, Roger, 164, 165, 168, 170, 172n5 elections, 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 11, 17 electoral cycles, 8 electoral impact, 114 electoral process, 1–2 electoral systems, 2, 95 electorate, 1, 2, 9

248 Index elite(s) circulation, 25 degeneration, 25–6 and electoral competitions, 29–30 leonine, 27–33 ascendancy in Australia, 31–3 ascendancy in United States, 28–31 propensities, 27 ruling, 23 transition, 23–5, 231–2 Pareto’s theory of, 24–7 ruling elites, 26–7 types, social theory of, 236 vulpine, 33–5 see also transition emotions, 193 empire, 214–15 EntryPlan, 199–203 collaborative action planning, 202–3 collaborative sense-making, 202 designing, 200–1 gathering data through dialogue, 201–2 testing, 201 Europhiles, 164 Eurosceptics, 164 evaluation, 16 exclusion, 176, 178, 179, 180, 181 executive government perspectives, on transition, 2, 3, 6, 12, 15, 240–2 see also government executive power, 4, 10, 11 factional rivalries, 2 Fadden, Arthur, 210, 217 federalism, 91 Federated Ships Painters’ and Dockers’ Union, 104 Fianna Fáil, 135, 140, 145 Fightback!, 48, 62, 70 fight-flight response, 193 filibuster, 80 financial crisis, 45 Fine Gael, Ireland, 136, 137, 140, 141, 144, 151, 152, 154n4 firing of ministerial colleagues, by Prime Ministers agency theory perspective, 158–60 moving ministers, UK and New Zealand experiences, 157–8 in New Zealand, 164–70

Prime ministers and ministerial turnover, in Westminster, 170–1 in United Kingdom, 160–4 Fisher, Andrew, 220 coming back to Australia, 214–15 income, 215 influence of, 213 poor health, 212 forced exits, 160 Fraser, Malcolm, 42, 87, 105, 210, 217 CARE Australia and, 224 as chair of the United Nations Secretary’s Expert Group on African Commodity Issues, 225 Commonwealth Group of Eminent Persons against Apartheid in South Africa and, 225 defeat of, 48 as Liberal leader, 217 moving on and filling the void, 223, 224 opposition leadership and, 57 raging against successors, 221–2 Robert Menzies and, 217 self-justification, 222 transition to government, managing, 46–8 Future Directions, 50 Goods and Services Tax (GST), 62, 82 Gorton, John, 135, 210 raging against successors, 221 removal as Liberal leader, 217 self-justification, 222 government, 234–5 ability to exercise authority, 235 branches of, 232 executive, perspectives on transition, 240–2 regulatory power of, 234 during election periods, 234 stability, 16 successions within political parties, 234–5 Governor-General, 102, 104 Green Party, Ireland, 144, 145 Green party, New Zealand, 134, 140, 144, 145 Hanson, Pauline, 49, 68 Haughey, Charles, 135, 145, 146

Index 249 Hawke, Bob, 28, 38, 42, 69, 101, 103, 106, 210 in election 1983, 42 Hawke Research Institute and, 224 laissez faire approach, 43 policy development, 42 self-justification, 222 transition to government, managing, 42–3, 51–2 Heath, Edward, 136, 154n3, 161, 162 heroic leadership, 192 see also leadership Heseltine, Michael, 161, 162 Hewson, John, 31 critique on Howard, 49 Fightback!, 48, 62, 70 opposition leadership and, 59 high-conflict succession, 126–7 Hobbes, Thomas, 231–2 Holland, Sidney, 158, 164, 167 Holt, Harold, 210, 216 Holyoake, Keith, 167–8, 169 Howard, John, 38, 89–90, 95, 101, 103, 104, 174, 175, 180, 181, 184, 187, 210, 219, 241 Bringing Them Home report 1997 and, 68 criticized by Hewson, 49 economic transformation and, 61–2 Future Directions, 50 government, 31–2 learning to lead in opposition, 71 Mark Latham and, 63 moving on and filling the void, 223 nationalism, 68 opposition leadership and, 55, 57, 59, 60 political learning in opposition influence, 64–5 presidential campaign, 48 raging against successors, 221 self-justification, 222 transition to government, managing, 48–9, 51 Hughes, William Morris, 210, 212, 217 income, 215 identity entrepreneurs, 178 identity entrepreneurship, 12, 238, 243 inclusion, 179

income, 215–16 incumbent, 3, 5, 7, 8–9, 11 leaders, 121–4 Indigenous – Non-Indigenous relations, 185 influence see persuasion ingroup, 176, 177, 178, 181, 184 solidarity, 179, 180 victimization, 180 intergroup, 176, 177, 181, 182, 183 conflict, 179 interparty competition, 181, 183 intragroup, 176, 177, 181, 182, 183 solidarity, 186 intraparty competition, 181, 183 Ireland, 134, 136, 152 Keating, Paul, 37–8, 42, 44, 62, 63, 70–1, 102, 103, 104, 127, 187, 210 government, 31 raging against successors, 221, 222 self-justification, 222 as visiting professor of public policy at the University of New South Wales, 224 Kennedy, John F., 39, 179 Kerry, John, 30, 87 Labor and quality of government, 41 Labor governments, preparation and transition, 38–46 Labor party, Australia, 135, 138, 151 Labour party, Ireland, 138, 144, 145 Labour party, New Zealand, 95, 97, 103, 135, 136, 138, 145, 151 Labour party, UK, 136, 137, 141, 145, 149, 151 laissez faire approach, 43 Lange, David, 135, 158, 165, 168, 170 Latham, Mark, 220 John Howard and, 63 leader cognitions attention, 194 private versus collaborative information processing, 194–6 longevity, 114 reputation, 196, 213 Leader Democracy, 23 leader-follower relations, 176

250 Index leadership aspirant, 116–21 authentic, building trust through, 196–9 challenge, 118, 122, 123, 127 change power consolidation and social identity and, 178–81 as social identity, 175–8 consolidation, 12 consultative, 197 heroic, 192 longevity, 112, 113 opposition see opposition leadership personal, 236–7 perspectives on transition, 240 rival, 8 selection, 15, 114, 121, 122, 129 selectorate, 151–2 strong, 56, 64 struggles, 2, 7 style, 11, 14, 56–7 successions, 5–7, 232–4 non-existing theory of, 238 see also successions, 232–4 transactional, 57 transformational, 57 see also new leadership role legitimacy, 177, 178, 181 leonine elites, 27–33 ascendancy in Australia, 31–3 ascendancy in United States, 28–31 see also elite(s) Liberal Democrats, UK, 141, 144, 151, 152 Liberal governments preparation and transition, 46–50 Liberal party, Australia, 135, 138, 150, 151, 186 Liberal party, Canada, 135–6, 137, 140, 141, 144, 151, 152 Liberal People’s Party (LPP), 123 Lijphart, Arend, 112 Locke, John, 231, 232 Machiavelli, Niccolò, 244 Major, John, 117, 161, 164 Maltese Labour Party, 113 mandate, 69–70 Mandela, Nelson, 130

Maori party, New Zealand, 134, 138, 144, 170 Marshall, John, 158, 169, 170 McCain, John, 23, 31 McMahon, William, 210, 218 moving on and filling the void, 223 raging against successors, 221 media, 96, 209, 219, 220 management, 65 Meech Lake Accord, 81 memoirs, 217–18 Menzies, Sir Robert, 209, 210 Malcolm Fraser and, 217 memoirs, 217–18 transition, 216–18 mergers, 2 military plutocracy, 26 see also plutocracy ministerial resignations, 158, 160, 161, 162–3, 164, 165, 166, 168, 169, 170 ministerial successions, 5, 13 see also successions ministrables, 158, 159, 164, 167, 168, 169 minority government, 3 Mixed Member Proportional (MMP) electoral system, 95, 96, 98, 99 Model 1 behaviour, 194, 195 Model 2 behaviour, 194–5 Moore, Michael, 151, 158 Muldoon, Sir Robert, 99, 164, 165, 168, 169, 170 Mulroney, Brian, 82, 84, 127 National Government, 100 nationalism, 67–9 National party, Australia, 138 National party, New Zealand, 95, 99, 135, 136, 140, 150, 165, 166, 167, 170, 172nn5, 6 Nelson, Brendan, 32, 150, 174, 175, 186 Neustadt, Richard, 39 New Democratic party, 144 New Democrats, Canada, 140 new leaders, 8, 12, 16, 17, 116–21 new leadership role, in public service approach to collaborative enquiry for see EntryPlan demands of, 192–4 objections and risks, 203–5

Index 251 private processing of information, 194–6 public sector managers, 191–2 short-term demands versus long-term interests, 195–6 trust through authentic leadership, building, 196–9 see also leadership New South Wales Traffic Advisory Committee, 216 New Zealand, 6, 8, 11, 16, 95, 134, 136, 143, 152, 153, 158, 164–70 rules for effective electoral change, 98–101 New Zealand First, 140, 166 non-democratic systems, 9–10 non-events, 9 norms, 177, 178, 180, 188 Obama, Barack, 23, 31, 175, 179, 183, 184, 185 administration, 31, 33–4 office-holders, 4, 5, 12, 13, 14, 209, 219, 235 open communication, 199 operators, 159, 160, 161, 166, 167, 171 opposition, 2, 3, 11 opposition leaders, 11 opposition leadership, 55–72 as a formative experience, 58–9 experience, governing without, 69–71 learning, 71–2 learning to manage government, 63–7 learning to speak for the nation, 67–9 tools of, 59–61 winning formula, 61–3 see also leadership organizational learning, 194–5 outgroups, 12, 176, 177, 178, 184, 238 exclusion, 180, 181 marginalization, 180 Page, Earle, 210, 217 Palmer, Geoffrey, 135, 156n6, 158, 166, 170 Pareto, Vilfredo, 23 theory of elite transitions, 24–7

parliament, 2–3, 11, 16, 94, 210, 215 parliamentary democracy, 2, 8, 13 parliamentary democracies, 2, 8, 13 parliamentary majority, 3 parliamentary sovereignty, 97 parliamentary supremacy, 97 parties, 2–3, 4, 5, 6, 9, 10, 11, 13, 16, 17 party leaders, 5, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17 party’s first post-succession election, 113 party leader, 111, 112, 113, 117, 118, 120, 125 job security among, 239 removal of, 239 party organizations, 16 party room, 112, 123, 125, 128, 131n4 party rules, 129 patronage, 13 Peacock, Andrew, 61, 104, 151 Penitentiary Act, 82 pensions, 215, 223, 225 personality, 233 perspective-taking, 195 persuasion, 178, 213–14 Peters, Winston, 165, 166, 167, 170 plutocracy, 26–7 demagogic, 26 military, 26 policy shifters see shifters political learning to manage government, 63–7 to speak for the nation, 67–9 political parties, 2, 4, 5, 6, 10, 13, 17 political structures, 6 political transitions, 1 see also transition postelection period, dealing with uncertainty in, 95 post-leadership, 209 post-succession election, 114 power, 14, 15, 175, 177, 188 brokers, 116 changing hands, 231–4 consolidation, 178–81, 183, 184, 186, 187 liberal-constitutional, 232 liberal-democratic, 232 perspectives on succession, 242–3 separation of, 237 Prebble, Richard, 165, 168, 170, 172n5

252 Index predecessor and successor, conflict between, 120–1 presidentialization, 15 presidential systems, 3, 13 prime ministerial afterlives, in Australia, 208–26 coming back to Australia, 214–15 income, 215–16 influence, 213–14 modern era, 218–20 moving on and filling the void, 223–5 pre-modern era, 211–12 raging against successors, 220–2 self-justification, 219, 222 prime ministerial successions, 13 prime ministerial transition management, 37–53 Labor’s experiences, 38–46 Liberal approaches, 46–50 styles of, 37–8, 50–3 prime ministers, 2, 11, 12, 13 as decision-makers, 238, 240 leadership style, 14, 17 in opposition see opposition leadership see also butchers; consensus seekers; dominators; operators modes of operation, 240 power of, 15 as primus inter pares, 209 principal agent see agency theory private processing of information, 194–6 Productivity Commission, 49 Progressive Conservatives, Canada, 136, 137, 140, 141, 142, 148 Progressive Democrats, Ireland, 144, 152, 154n4 proportional representation, 2, 6, 88 public administration, 4 public sector managers new leadership role, 191–2 public service, 2, 6, 8, 12, 14, 15, 94 public service successions, 6 see also successions Quigley, Derek, 164–5, 166, 172n5 Reagan, Ronald, 78–9 administration, 28–9 recall Parliament, 101

re-categorization, 176 Reid, George, 211, 217 coming back to Australia, 215 income, 215 influence of, 213–14 relational transparency, 197 relative prototypicality, 124 removal, 15, 16, 239 reshuffles, 2, 5, 168–9 responsiveness, 5, 12, 13, 15 revolutionaries, 120 Rowling, Bill, 145, 158 Rudd, Kevin, 23, 89, 175, 185, 241 global financial crisis 2008 and, 45 government, 32–3, 34–5 nationalism, 68–9 opposition leadership and, 55, 57 political learning in opposition influence, 66–7 transition to government, managing, 44–6, 52 winning formula, 63 ruling elites, 23, 24 circulation, 25 degeneration, 25–6 psychological propensities for, 24–5 transition, 26–7 see also elite(s) Scottish National Party, 154n1 Scullin, James, 210, 211, 220 income, 215 influence of, 213 poor health, 212 selectorate, 9, 111 self, 176 self-awareness, 198 self-categorization theory, 176 self-justification, 219, 222 self-management, 198 self-regulatory capability, 198 Senates, 73–4 contested transitions in Australia, 86–91 Canada, 80–6 United States of America, 76–9 senior executives, 8, 15 sense-making, collaborative, 202 separations of power, 91, 237 shifters, 159, 160, 161, 164, 165, 166, 168, 170, 171

Index 253 Shipley, Jenny, 150, 158, 165 shirking/shirkers, 159, 160, 164, 165, 169, 170, 171 short-term demands versus long-term interests, 195–6 Smith, Ian Duncan, 136, 144, 149 social comparison, 179 social context, 178, 181 social creativity, 179, 187 social division, 177, 178 social identity, 174 leadership change as, 175–8 leadership transition and succession and, 181–8 power consolidation and leadership change and, 178–81 social identity theory, 12, 238 Solicitor-General, 97, 100 solidarity, 178, 179, 180, 181–2, 184 politics of, 181, 184 post-succession, 186 rhetoric of, 185 spill motion, 141, 142, 154n3 starting a new role, 191–2 stress response and/or fight-flight response, 193 strong leadership, 56, 64 see also leadership successions, 237–9 accountability perspectives on, 243–4 characteristics and challenges, 5–6 conflicted, 126–7 leadership, 232–4 outcomes, 128–31 aspirants and new leaders, 116–21 assessment, 112–16 incumbents, 121–4 succession process, 125–7 power perspectives on, 242–3 social-identify frameworks for, 235 studies, 7–9 understanding, 12–17 within political parties, 234–5 successor and predecessor, conflict between, 120–1 superordinate identity, 176, 177, 183 Talboys, Brian, 166, 169 term limits, 5

Thatcher, Margaret, 96, 124, 127, 135, 136, 154n3, 160, 162, 164 learning to lead in opposition, 71 nationalism, 67 opposition leadership and, 57, 60 political learning in opposition influence, 63–6 transition to government, managing, 46 Third Way, 62 Timor Gap Treaty, 31 transactional leadership, 57, 62–3 see also leadership transformational leadership, 57 see also leadership transition, 94, 236–7 characteristics and challenges, 2–5 constitutional perspectives on, 239–40 contested see contested transitions democratic, 3–4, 9–10 elite, 231–2 executive government perspectives on, 240–2 leadership perspectives on, 11, 240 legislative dimension of, 73–4 peaceful transition, 1, 2 political transitions, 1 studies, 7–9 understanding, 9–12 Trudeau, Pierre, 83, 124 trust, 12, 17 through authentic leadership, building, 196–9 Turia, Turiana, 165, 167, 172n6 Turnball, Malcolm, 150, 175, 186 two-party system, 99, 114 United Future, New Zealand, 140, 167 United Kingdom, 13, 16, 134, 136, 152, 158, 160–4, 174 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) Gough Whitlam and, 224–5 United States of America, 175 divided government, 77–8 leonine ascendancy in, 28–31 nominations and confirmations, 76–7 Senate, controlling, 78–9

254 Index University of South Australia, 224 upper houses, role of opposition in, 61 US economic Armageddon, 30 vulpine elites, 33–5 see also elite(s) Watson, Don, 218–19 Watson, John Christian as chairman of directors of AMPOL, 216 as chairman of New South Wales Traffic Advisory Committee, 216 as director of Yellow Cabs Australia Ltd, 216 income, 215–16 influence of, 213 National Roads and Motorists’ Association and, 216 poor health, 212 we-ness, 238 Westminster, 11, 17 cases, 133 authority, for leader removal, 143–6 fixed leadership terms, 138–40 leader exits, reasons for, 134–6 party leader accountability, in personalized politics era, 153–4 party leader security and accountability, 146–53 removal of party leaders, possibility of, 136–7 scheduled confidence votes, 140–1 spontaneous leadership challenges, 141–2 conventions, 95–8

norms of bureaucratic impartiality and professionalism, 241–2 opposition leadership, 58 systems, 94, 114 Whitelaw, William, 87, 160, 162 Whitlam, Gough, 38, 87, 95, 121, 151, 210 as active leader of Caucus, 39–40 as Ambassador to UNESCO, 224–5 approach to preparing for government, 38, 51 as chairman of the Australia-China Council, 224 as chairman of the National Gallery of Australia, 224 failures of coordination and consultation, 40 Labor and quality of government, 41 as member of 1995 Sydney Olympic bid team, 224 as member of the Constitutional Commission, 224 moving on and filling the void, 223, 224 as opposition leader, 38 opposition leadership and, 57, 59, 60 policy development, 38–9 resignation of, 41 self-justification, 222 transition to government, managing, 40–1 visiting fellow at the Australian National University, 224 visiting professor at the University of Adelaide, 224 Wilenski, Peter, 38–9 policy development, 38–9 Wilenski, Peter, 97