FOREWORD

Blood: A Scientific Romance is many things. It's a play about alternate realities, it's an oblique critique of the ethics behind scientific investigation of human subjects, it's a romance, a tragedy, a prairie gothic, a thoughtful meditation on what it is to be twin. Like many plays today it straddles genres, integrates a variety of conventions, and ultimately defies definition.

One of the things that I admire most about Meg Braem as a playwright is the diverse nature of her interests. She is keenly aware of social and environmental issues, she keeps bees, is passionate about clowning and ancient Greek theatre. In Blood, one sees all these topics and interests mixing and mingling to good effect. There is a lovely choral quality that echoes the ancient Greek form in a good way. One sees the scrutiny and suspicious circling (as bees circle, I think) of scientific procedure. There is a subtle influence of a clown aesthetic in the use of a comic metanarrative and the playful poetry. In other, less capable hands this all might prove too much, but Meg employs a light touch and a certain nimbleness as she keeps all her pieces and components in play.

For all the literary gymnastics, make no mistake, however, there are issues of consequence being explored in this play. Dr. Glass saves two young orphaned girls from a tragic accident and then has them transported to his private lab, where he imprisons them, raises, and studies them. This fictional exploitation of human subjects is grounded in a very real, troubled history that the scientific community continues to grapple with. Perhaps the most notorious examples of non-consensual experimentation upon human subjects are those performed by the Nazis during the Second World War. But one doesn't have to look that far afield, or search into the distant past to find other examples. In the late forties, scientists working for the American government had prisoners in Guatemala infected with syphilis to determine the effectiveness of penicillin. In Montreal, in the late fifties and early sixties, psychiatric patients were subjected to "psychic driving" experiments partially funded by the CIA. Blood attempts to isolate and understand the impulse that motivates this kind of misguided research.

Preventing the play from ever becoming didactic or preachy, however, is the obvious empathy that Meg has for her characters. She cares deeply about the relationships her characters engage in and strive to negotiate, whether those relationships are supportive, antagonistic, competitive, or all three simultaneously. (Did I mention that Meg is also a twin? I can recall speaking with her when she was first thinking about this play, about the complex nature of being a twin. She recalled the special sensitivity and closeness that comes with having someone as a playmate right from your first moments in the womb. She also spoke of the somewhat claustrophobic feeling of growing up alongside someone you know you will be compared to for your entire life. Some of that complexity is embedded in this play as well.) This, perhaps, is a signature of Meg Braem's work—the passionate engagement she has with her characters. In her plays nobody ever remains neutral. People struggle to remain objective, battle to remain in control, but ultimately it is their passions that drive them.

Inasmuch as Blood: A Scientific Romance is a work with many facets, it is equally a work that generates many responses. It is comic in places, provocative in other places, but it is thoroughly compelling throughout. This is a fascinating early work by a playwright who I am certain we will be hearing more from in the future. It's with great eagerness that I look forward to her next work.

—Clem Martini

June 2013