A Toronto theatre review: Veronica Hortigüela and Annie Luján unleash an interactive clowning adventure of lentils, outrageous physical comedy, and occasional flashes of unexpected tenderness.

By Ross

Theatre that throws caution, dignity, and occasionally good taste straight out the window is a thing of chaotic beauty, especially when the performers are having such an outrageously good time that resisting the invitation feels almost blasphemous. MONKS, now conjuring up chaos at Tarragon Theatre, is that kind of creation. It’s a ridiculous masterclass in unbridled, interactive clown comedy, a feverish, festive exercise in throwing spaghetti at the wall and gleefully watching what sticks, whether half-cooked or overdone. Created, co-directed, and performed by Veronica Hortigüela and Annie Luján, who take on the roles of the monastery’s resident ‘Brothers,’ this award-winning production has made the journey from its Toronto Fringe and Edinburgh Festival Fringe appearances into Tarragon‘s intimate Extraspace, where its particular brand of medieval mischief finds an especially receptive home. I am not entirely sure I would call all of it clever, but I can certainly call it committed, gloriously silly, and occasionally so absurd that the only sensible response is to surrender.

A robed monk wanders across the stage as we enter, holding up a lantern as though searching for a way through the darkness. The purpose of this little expedition remains a mystery, but as the theatre lights dim, the lantern is dropped with what looks like complete exhaustion, all before the monk lets out a scream into the depths of a barrel sitting centre stage. Little do we know what is about to emerge from that same barrel as we are transported, magically, to the year 1157. We are seated within a “modest Spanish monastery forsaken by time,” whose full name would take up an unreasonable amount of space in this review. A narrator with the voice of a twisted God and an accent that immediately brings Mandy Patinkin’s Inigo Montoya from “The Princess Bride” to mind introduces us to this so-called tale. Our ‘Brother’ quickly ‘Shhhhhh-es’ us and gestures emphatically for us to lower our heads. We are told that we are the first guests to their home in five years. Yet before we are permitted to settle in, we must learn the rules, which include enduring a hearty dose of collective shaming before receiving a handful of lentils lovingly poured into our palms. Their purpose will become clear soon enough, but I’m sure these two are counting on me to leave that particular surprise alone. The lies that they must make amends for have already been told, and the two monks are soon racing across the stage like spirited dogs chasing their own tails (and tale), grinning at the mayhem they have tossed into our laps, and splashing about, practically drowning themselves in what can only be described as holy water.

The premise is outrageously ridiculous. These two mischievous medieval Benedictine monks have been left alone in their secluded monastery while the Abbot has ventured into town, and in a moment of giddy glee, they seize the opportunity to invite a wagon full of strangers into their austere home to count and convalesce. Their daily rituals, including sorting, washing, and counting lentils, caring for a donkey, and attempting to keep the monastery from collapsing, become the centre of an increasingly chaotic afternoon in their company. There is also the prospect of spending time sitting in a field doing absolutely nothing, although we never quite seem to get there. MONKS is far more interested in creating a shared experience of hilariously silly behaviour than following a conventional narrative, and that is both its greatest pleasure and one of its limitations. The humour moves freely between the clever, the juvenile, the downright bizarre, and the occasional groan-worthy gag, with an enthusiasm that rarely gives the audience time to catch its breath. Participation is very much part of their plan. You may be addressed as “Brother,” handed a prop, offered bread or grapes, or find yourself involved in the monks’ various frivolities, including a rather enthusiastic attempt to conjure a storm with spray bottles, branches, and flashlights. Front-row seating comes with its own particular set of possibilities, so consider yourself warned.

Hortigüela and Luján throw themselves into this world with an almost alarming degree of physical commitment. Their facial expressions are wonderfully elastic, their movements are gloriously exaggerated, and their improvisational instincts give the performance a lively unpredictability. The two have decades of creative chemistry behind them, along with extensive classical clown training, and that shared understanding is apparent in the way they bounce off one another and the walls. Their commitment to the foolishness is absolute, whether they are racing around the stage or getting tangled up in the monastery’s rituals and the occasional microphone cord. The costumes and Chris Malkowski‘s lighting give the monks’ devil-may-care antics an extra burst of theatrical mayhem, even when headpieces fall by the wayside.

For much of its running time, MONKS is content to be pointless, unapologetic, and wonderfully vulgar buddy-comedy buffoonery. I mean that most affectionately. The show understands the particular pleasure of watching two performers become completely absorbed in their own nonsense, and it is difficult not to be swept along by the sheer audacity of it all. Yet, as the production approaches its final moments, the relentless silliness gives way to a quieter, more lyrical reflection on friendship, human connection, and the value of doing absolutely nothing for a while. There are little hints of affection along the way, including the whispered “not yet” that passes between the Brothers whenever their affection threatens to get a little too close for comfort, but that particular thread never quite blossoms into anything suspect. I wanted more of that connection woven into the chaos, even in small ways. Instead, it arrives rather abruptly, leaving us with a lovely idea that never quite takes root.

The show’s loose, shapeless structure is part of its improvisational charm, and the fact that no two performances are exactly alike gives the audience a sense of being caught up in something unfolding right there in front of us. At approximately 70 minutes, with no intermission, the energy rarely lets up, although a few jokes outstay their welcome. Still, the performers’ willingness to follow a gag wherever it takes them is infectious, and it is easy to understand why these Brothers have been granted a longer leash at Tarragon following their award-winning Toronto Fringe run and their 2026 Edinburgh Festival Fringe appearance.

MONKS most definitely slapped a big smile on my face almost from the first lantern drop, even if the production’s final thoughts about friendship and the simple pleasure of doing nothing deserve a little more room to breathe. Beneath all the outrageous behaviour, Hortigüela and Luján offer glimpses of a bond that occasionally threatens to become something else, only to be met with that whispered, “not yet.” Perhaps that is the joke, or maybe the Brothers haven’t quite found the words for whatever it is they share. And with a sweet kiss to the bald spot, we are delivered back to that lantern, which may not have exactly helped our wandering monks find their way through the darkness, but it certainly helped illuminate our time spent in their gloriously foolish company. That’s exactly the kind of sunny enlightenment I’ll take into my heart any day of the week.