From the play "The Day They Shot John Lennon"
written by James McLure
Fran: There's a very melancholy strain in the work of Edward Hopper. A lack of detail in their faces. He captures the mundane quality of existence. And that desperate quality within that mundaneness. I mean, his people look at each other but they don't really see each other. Most of the times they don't even look at each other. They don't reach out and touch each other. They just wait. With that awful blankness. In nighthawk diners, in quiet Sunday roadside windows, forgotten gas stations, over chop suey they wait. There's this one where there are no people, just the trees and the grass, and it seems to rustle as if a disturbing wind were passing by. And there's a great sense of urgency and expectancy in the woods. Something is about to happen. The woods are waiting, waiting. Waiting. Just waiting for the answer. But waiting quietly and darkly in a woodsy sort of way. There's this other one where a group of people are waiting in like reclining deck chairs like at a resort only they're facing mountains, like Arizona mountains, with a vast desert that sweeps before them and they're all dressed up as if they were waiting to be beckoned, to be called, to be taken across this vast lunar landscape. By who? By what? By death? By God? By flying saucers? What powers are they waiting for? I don't know. Who knows? (with significance) But this much I do know. They're very placid as they wait. They are not disturbed, show no anxiety, they are placid. (pause) And here we are. A group of strangers looking at this building where he lived. Waiting for an answer. Waiting for understanding. Waiting for forgiveness? Waiting for something. That's for damn sure.