On the Couch, written and performed with tremendous energy by Nora Armani, is an interesting attempt that does not quite live up to its promise. It is a one-woman show which on the one hand tells the story of Nora Armani's life and on the other shows off her various acting skills. The problem is that it never makes up its mind or fully commits itself to one or the other. This is partly intentional on Armani's part she wants us to be unable to define the line between art and life, and to question whether this is the real Nora we are seeing or a character in a play. 
      There are some very good ideas and some lovely moments. When she steps outside her 'story' to recite a poem you can instantly see what a great actress she could be, or is, with the right material I would have liked to have seen more. She has great presence, wonderful sparkling eyes and an even more sparkling smile. When she breaks into laughter she suddenly becomes amazingly natural and for a moment you feel that she really is talking to you as a friend. There were also, though, some unnecessarily awkward bits: at one point she leaves the stage for what seemed to be an unconscionably long time, returning eventually with a shawl and a tea-tray. I was expecting a spectacular costume change at very least. On another occasion she brings on a large hookah and proceeds to pretend to puff it two or three times, and then moves it aside. It added nothing to the scene; on the contrary, it was a distraction. 
      The story she tells is in fact the story of her ancestors. Nora was born in Egypt but is of Armenian descent. We hear how both her paternal and maternal grandparents met and emigrated. Mingled with her story are songs which a grandmother sang to her and stories she was told. These are beautiful, evocative snippets. But we never get to know her own story, why she went to Hollywood and became an actress despite being one minute too ethnic and the next not ethnic enough. She addresses an old lover (in the audience) asking him what went wrong, reliving their parting minutes, even reading out unsent letters; but at the end we still feel as though we have not fully been admitted to her life, and therefore we are not quite sure why she is telling this story. The ornamentations of the story – songs, poems and dances – are interesting but they are not enough. There are the bones of a fascinating evening here but they still await their flesh. 
Francine Brody